


Never Say Die

by Morgan Briarwood (morgan32)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Darkfic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-24
Updated: 2009-07-25
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:09:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 80,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgan32/pseuds/Morgan%20Briarwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a hunt that went horribly wrong, John wakes up in a California hospital. It's thirteen years later, everyone he trusted seems to be dead, and he has no idea how to find his sons. Meanwhile, unknown to John, Dean's time is running out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

#### May 1995, Devil's Gate Reservoir, California

John knelt beside Bill Harvelle, taking cover behind the scrub. Dampness from the earth seeped through his pants at the knees. This close to the reservoir all of the ground was moist, the earth rich and green. John could smell it: the scent of living things.

It gave him no comfort as he gazed across the water to their quarry. "My God, Bill," he breathed, giving voice to what he knew they were both thinking. "They're just children."

Bill nodded grimly. "Makes it harder," he agreed gruffly, "but it's them alright." He checked the bullets in his gun for the umpteenth time; something John recognised as a nervous habit.

Not much fazed John Winchester after over a decade of hunting evil, but he stared at the three children gathered around the fire, horrified by what he and Bill had to do now. They looked like kids on a camping trip, their faces illuminated by the flames. The oldest of them was about Sammy's age, a golden haired boy. The youngest was a girl no more than six years old.

Bill turned his dark eyes to John. Bill had covered his pale hair with a wool cap and rubbed dirt into his face. "John, those _kids_ have killed three people already. Four, if Father Michael's disappearance is anything to go by. They ain't what they look like. They're demons. We're gonna take care of 'em."

_Don't get soft on me now._ Bill didn't say the words, but John heard them clearly. "Two of us," he argued, "three of them. Kids, Bill. We can try an exorcism."

"They've been possessed for months," Bill objected.

He meant there was a good chance exorcism would kill the children. John nodded, but he was already searching through his pack for salt and holy water. They were both carrying salt – it might be enough to create a circle.

"John. You're really serious about this?"

John gazed across the moonlit water to the children's camp. "I'll kill them all if we have to, Bill. If you want to stick to the original plan, we can." Yeah, he was serious. Most humans who became possessed had invited it somehow. But if these _children_ invited possession, they certainly couldn't be held to blame for it as an adult could. John was a hunter, not a murderer.

Bill swore under his breath. "You're right. I can't slaughter kids any more than you can. Damn it, John." He met John's eyes over the brush. “What's your plan?"

John considered that for a moment, then answered, "Bait."

After some discussion, they put the plan into action. Bill approached the campsite from the other side. He walked down openly, pretending to be a cop checking up on them. While Bill kept the demon children distracted, John approached from the other side. He had his handgun in his belt and carried the shotgun, because that was the closest thing he had to a club: a non-lethal weapon.

He watched Bill and the demons warily. Even with the moonlight and the campfire, it was too dark for John to see everything. He saw one of the demons move. Bill went for his gun. John saw the flash of a blade and the demons shifting to flank Bill.

"Bill!" He yelled a warning.

It was a mistake.

Bill looked toward John when he shouted. The next instant, the demons were on him. John was too far away. He ran toward them.

Bill shouted in pain. John reached them and struck one of the demons away. He could only hope he had judged the blow correctly as he swung the shotgun upward and fired both barrels at the next demon. The third was nowhere to be seen.

John called to Bill, "You okay?" He scanned the surrounding area for the third demon, adrenaline still pumping through him. The demon was gone.

"I'm fine." Bill rose to his feet and spat on the ground. "John, forget him. Let's take care of these two."

Reluctantly, John turned his back on the darkness and reached for the salt. Two out of three wasn't a bad score, he told himself. He tossed the salt to Bill and knelt beside the demon he'd shot. It was the little girl. There wasn't much blood, but that was the demon holding its host together. When they exorcised it, the child would die.

There was nothing he could do about that now.

John stood, lifting the girl in his arms, and carried her into the salt circle Bill was laying down. "I'll do it," he volunteered. "Watch the other one."

Bill didn't argue.

The Latin of the ritual came easily to John. Once he doused her with holy water, the demon-child quit feigning unconsciousness. It would fight; they always did. The salt held it, though, and all it could do was hurl threats at John while he chanted, relentlessly, driving the damned thing out of the little girl it hijacked. Finally, the girl screamed, a high-pitched wail as black smoke poured from her mouth. Blood dripped down her chin and neck. Blood spurted from wounds appearing in her chest and her shoulder, soaking through her clothing like scarlet flowers blooming in the cloth.

John knew before she fell that the child was dead.

He shoved the unknown child's fate into the dark corner of his mind where he kept all such horrors. He lifted her body out of the circle and turned to Bill.

Bill had bound the second demon with ropes. They dragged it into the circle together. John raised the bottle of holy water and brought it down with a slashing motion, splashing it over the demon from head to waist. It recoiled and yelled with pain.

Bill began the exorcism ritual. John joined his voice with Bill's, moving around the edge of the salt circle.

It came out of the darkness, swift and deadly. John never even saw it coming. He was just suddenly airborne. He heard Bill scream. He crashed to the ground at the edge of the reservoir. He reached for his sidearm, slid out the magazine and rammed home his spare – the one with the special ammo. Bill's screams reached him and he scrambled up. Pain shot through him; he ignored it. He took aim and fired, terrified he would hit Bill. He ran toward them, not as fast as he could, but checking his speed so he could keep shooting. The demon on Bill fell. John fired at it again, point-blank, blowing half of the kid's face away. Black smoke sprayed out with the blood.

John didn't spare a glance for Bill. It was a soldier's instinct: to take care of the enemy behind him first. He stalked over to the salt circle, aimed his gun at the possessed child, and fired. He shot, over and over, until the gun was empty and the kid was a bloody mess on the ground.

The children had been possessed for months. They were probably dead already.

Only then did he see what the demon had done to Bill Harvelle.

Bill lay on his back, near the still-glowing camp fire. Something had slashed through the front of his jeans, just below the belt, and through Bill's flesh beneath the denim. Bill clutched at the wound with both hands, as if trying to hold his flesh closed. His hands were covered with blood. He seemed to be struggling to sit up, his spine curved, his chin in his chest. All the while, he muttered to himself, his voice strained, the words meaningless.

John took it all in swiftly. He knelt beside his friend and pushed at his shoulder to make him lie flat. quot;Bill, lie down. Don't struggle, you'll make it worse." How much worse could it be?

As gently as he could, John drew Bill's hands away from the terrible wound. He saw what he feared he would see: the gash was wide and deep, parts of Bill's innards bulging out of the torn flesh.

"Oh, God," John choked. "Oh, Bill."

John had seen men die before. In Vietnam, he held a dying friend in his arms, gave him a last drink of water and pretended he couldn't see that half the man's body was gone, blown apart by a land mine. In Lawrence, John watched his wife die in flames hotter than any napalm. John looked down at Bill's wound and he knew it was fatal.

But maybe it wasn't, his heart insisted. Stomach wounds hurt worse than anything, but the real danger was infection. A stomach wound killed slowly, which meant that maybe, if Bill received hospital care quickly, if none of his internal organs was perforated, he might live. It was a hell of a long shot, but it could happen.

John stripped off his leather jacket, and the shirt beneath it. The shirt was a lousy bandage, but it was all he had. He folded it and looked again at the wound. He was going to have to lift Bill to fasten this in place. Shit. Bill was going to _hurt_.

Deep down, John knew it was hopeless. There was too much blood, too much damage. If they'd been someplace where John could get a cell signal and call for help, then maybe. But he was going to have to carry Bill to the Impala and drive him to the nearest hospital. It would take too long. But, damn it, he was going to _try_. How could he not try?

John leaned close to Bill's face. "Bill, can you hear me? Bill! Stay awake, damn you!"

Blood glistened on Bill's cheek. He opened his eyes. His forehead and the skin around his eyes creased with pain, but Bill seemed lucid. Thank God for that.

"Bill, I need to lift you," John tried to explain. "It's gonna hurt, but hold on to me if you can. I'm gonna get you some help, buddy. Just hold on."

Bill's eyes pleaded. "Ellen," he whispered, breaking John's heart with the word. "John...please..."

"No!" John almost shouted it. "No. I'm not gonna let you die. Don't you fucking dare die on me."

Bill's voice held that awful rattle you only hear when the speaker is near death. "John...tell...Ellen..."

_Damn it, Bill._ John could barely make out what he was saying. He leaned closer, not wanting to miss Bill's last words.

Bill's hand closed around John's throat. With impossible strength, he lifted John away from him, sitting up as if that terrible wound wasn't even there. John grasped Bill's wrist with both hands, fighting to free himself. Bill's hand squeezed John's windpipe. He couldn't breathe! Bill's hand continued to close, slowly, inexorably. John fought for breath in vain. Rushing blood filled his ears. Jesus, Bill was going to snap his neck!

Spots danced in front of John's eyes, the edges of his vision darkening. Suddenly, all he could see was Bill's eyes, glittering black like coal.

"I know who you are, John Winchester!" Bill snarled. "I know about your boys!"

Terror lent John strength. He ripped the gun from his belt. It was empty, he remembered in time, and he reversed it, using the gun as a club. Bill's hand on his throat loosened just a little. It was enough. John wrenched himself away, grabbing for a fresh clip. He rammed it into the gun even as he coughed in air and rolled, almost helpless, onto his back.

He raised the gun. _Oh, God forgive me!_

And he fired, right between Bill's demonic eyes.

Black smoke filled the air around them, blocking out moon and stars for an instant. Then it was gone.

***

#### St. Thomas Hospital, Sacramento, California

The first thing John became aware of was sound. An electronic beep, just loud enough to be annoying, beat out a steady pulse somewhere nearby. John focussed on that sound, following it back to the world. Then there were other sounds: a P.A. system with a woman's voice making some announcement. Footsteps, voices.

John opened his eyes and a white, tiled ceiling swam into view. He looked for the source of that beeping sound. Moving his head made things swirl around in his brain, but he saw it: a hospital heart monitor, its electronic green display counting the beats of his heart. Beside it, a bag of clear liquid hung from a stand; a long tube ran from it to John's arm.

John frowned, struggling to remember. He must have been badly hurt to be hooked up to machines like this.

The only memory that came to him was Bill Harvelle, black-eyed and crazy, yelling something about John's sons. Then John had...

_Bill? Bill's dead? Oh, God, no._

He tried to sit up. His vision blurred and pain knifed through his skull. _Okay. No sitting up_. John turned his head cautiously, moving as slowly as he could, craning his neck to look behind him. He was in a hospital bed so there should be a call button somewhere.

The heart monitor began beeping more quickly. John saw what he was looking for and reached above his head. It seemed to take a superhuman effort just to reach up, grab the small device and push the button. He kept it in his hand, gazing at the ceiling.

A woman appeared in the doorway, hesitated, then approached the bed. She was African American, her hair braided in cornrows. Her uniform was pale blue and very neat. There was a name badge on her chest, but John couldn't read it. She smiled professionally, meeting his eyes. "Well. Welcome back," she said. She checked the monitor beside him.

John couldn't return her smile. Her words suggested he'd been out for a long time. He tried to ask, _What happened to me?_ but couldn't manage more than a whisper. His mouth felt very dry.

She seemed to sense his difficulty. "I'll get you some water," she offered. She disappeared, returning a few moments later with a cup and a straw. She held the straw to John's mouth and he drank.

John cleared his throat and tried again. "How long?"

She set the cup on the nightstand beside his bed. "I've called Doctor Owen. He'll answer all your questions."

Her evasion scared him. "Please," John insisted. "Just tell me how long I've been here." He actually got the whole sentence out. Good.

"You've been unconscious for about two weeks," she answered.

Two weeks! He'd left his boys alone for two weeks? Where were they? Did they know he was here?

"I need a phone," John told her.

"As soon as the doctor sees you..." she began.

Fear lent John strength and he interrupted her. "I don't know what happened to me. Last thing I remember, I left my kids alone in a motel. I was only going to be gone an hour. Please. I've got to call my boy." The half-truths came to him easily, even now.

Her professional smile vanished. He could almost hear thoughts of calling social services and don't-those-kids-have-a-mother running through her head. He'd seen that look too often.

She recovered quickly, though. "Of course," she said. "If you tell me where they are, I'll – "

"No, I need to call mys- " John broke off as the door opened again and a doctor walked in. Doctors were getting younger all the time, John thought. The man looked like he was in his early twenties.

He spoke quietly to the nurse and then to John. "Hello, I'm Doctor Owen. I'm just going to check you over, and then we can talk, okay?"

John swallowed his frustration, knowing from experience that with doctors it's best just to go with it. "Sure," he answered, because nodding his head still hurt.

At the doctor's direction, the nurse helped John to sit up a little. She adjusted the bed to give him a firm backrest. It helped. "I need a phone," John repeated.

"We'll get to that," Owen said. "Can you tell me your name?"

John knew the routine. Saying a silent prayer that he wasn't registered under some alias he couldn't remember, he answered, "John Winchester."

Owen shone a pen light into John's left eye, then his right. "Who's President?" he asked.

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Bill Clinton," he said.

"Okay. Follow the light for me, please." Owen held the pen light in front of John's eyes, moving it to one side, then the other, then up and down. He nodded and, apparently satisfied, clicked the little flashlight off and pocketed it. He held up one hand with two fingers curled down into his palm. "How many fingers?"

John narrowed his eyes. "Two. Are we done?"

"Almost. What year is it, Mr Winchester?"

For the first time, John felt uneasy. "1995," he told the doctor. He saw him exchange a glance with the nurse. "What? What's going on?"

The doctor's face was sober. "Mr Winchester, you've been through a massive trauma. It's normal to be disoriented for a while, or to forget..."

"Cut the crap, son. Just tell me."

"Alright. The year isn't 1995, Mr Winchester. It's 2008."

***

John stared at the telephone for a long time.

Since he woke up the day before, he'd endured tests and long conversations with a shrink and other doctors. He'd begged over and over for a phone, and every time had been met with the same response: the hospital would call anyone he wanted, but he wasn't well enough to get out of bed. Finally, they agreed to unhook him from the machines and let him make a call. For his part, John promised not to exert himself, whatever that meant. Apparently it meant using a wheelchair he didn't need, and making his call in a hospital corridor, wearing a borrowed robe.

He'd rather be under arrest. At least then he'd be entitled to make a private call.

John had a stack of quarters ready to feed into the phone, but now he was there, he wasn't sure who to call. Calling the motel would be useless: whatever happened to his boys, it happened thirteen years ago.

Thirteen years. Thirteen years of his life were missing. John had no idea where his boys were, nor even if they were alive. He didn't know if he'd lost them thirteen years before or if some more recent incident had wiped his memory clean. He needed answers that doctors couldn't give him. Who could he contact?

Ellen Harvelle was the first person he thought of, but John's last clear memory was of killing her husband. Perhaps for her that was a long time ago, but for him it was just a few days. The thought of facing her after what he'd done...what he'd been forced to do...was unbearable. What could he say to her after that?

If not Harvelle's Roadhouse, then who could he call? Who wouldn't have moved on in thirteen years?

John dialled a number and listened to it ring, over and over. He let it ring. After what seemed like far too long, a woman's voice answered. He was relieved to recognise her voice. He remembered Patty as a motherly woman with a gentle smile and a fondness for sugar candy. She must be older now, but her voice still sounded like she was smiling.

"Hello, Patty. I'm trying to reach Jim. Is he around?"

Patty's sharp intake of breath told John something was wrong before she answered. "No, he's... Are you one of his war buddies?"

"Yes, I am," John answered. It was a kind of code: war buddies was how Jim Murphy referred to hunters. Patty was his housekeeper, and she knew about their secret life. She knew enough, anyway.

"I'm terribly sorry," Patty said, her voice suddenly quiet. "The pastor...died two years ago."

John gripped the arm of his wheelchair hard. Dead? No. Not Jim.

"How is it you didn't know?" Patty asked him.

John improvised quickly. "I...er...I've been out of touch for a while. Just got out of prison. I was hoping Jim could hook me up with the old crowd. You, uh, you don't know any of his old contacts, do you?" It was a weak story; she would probably be suspicious.

"I'm sorry, no. So many of his old friends are gone now."

John swallowed. "Who else died?" he asked nervously.

Patty was silent for a moment. "Caleb died the same time as Jim. Steve Wandell last year. John Winchester. Gordon – "

"Wait. Did you say John Winchester?" He dropped his voice low, conscious of people all around him. He gripped the phone, willing himself to stay calm, think this through. She was wrong, obviously, but what did that mean?

"I'm afraid so," Patty confirmed. More gently, she asked, "Was he a friend?"

"We're...close," John answered ironically, feeding more coins into the phone. Either she had been misinformed, or he'd chosen to fake his death sometime in those years he couldn't remember. It was possible. John made plans long ago in case he needed to drop out of sight. "Do you know," he asked carefully, "what happened to John and his boys?"

"It was young Sam Winchester told me about his daddy, but that was near a year ago. I don't know what happened, only that John died."

_Sammy's alive. God, thank you, he's alive. But what about Dean? What about **me**?_ John thought he'd pushed Patty about as far as he could. Reluctantly, he swallowed back his questions. "Well, thank you, ma'am. I won't take up more of your time." He hung up quickly.

What in God's name was going on?

John leaned his forehead against the cool wall beside the telephone. He felt weak. He drew in a deep breath and tried to process what he'd learned. Jim Murphy was dead. So was Caleb. They and the Harvelles were the people John trusted most. And Bill was gone, too. For a moment Bill's face, black-eyed and bloody, rose up in John's memory.

_I know who you are, John Winchester! I know about your boys!_

Where were his boys now? What was happening to him?

Someone touched his back. "Are you alright?"

John looked up. It was Cindy, the nurse who he first met when he woke up here. He straightened up, nodding. "I'm fine. Just got some bad news is all."

"I'm sorry." She leaned down, looking into his eyes. "You look a little shocky, John. Let's get you back to bed."

John glanced at his meagre stack of quarters. "Not yet. I need to make another call."

Cindy looked like she wanted to argue, but something in John's expression must have stopped her. She shook her head as if he were a naughty child, but said, "Alright. I'll be at the desk when you need me."

_When_ not _if_. That right there: that was why he liked Cindy. She didn't come right out and remind him he was a patient and should be taking it easy. No, she found a more subtle way to let him know he was being stupidly stubborn. John gave her a smile to show he understood. "Thanks." He turned back to the telephone.

He called Harvelle's Roadhouse. Who knew if he and Ellen were still on speaking terms. He killed her husband. They'd been close, the three of them, but John had no illusions about his place in Ellen's heart. She wasn't the forgiving type. But John had nowhere else to turn. At least Ellen might be able to give him someone else to call.

It never crossed John's mind that Ellen, too, could be gone. When he found the Roadhouse number out of service he assumed he must have mis-dialled. John hung up the phone and tried again, but got the same result. He tried calling Information for the number, giving the address of the Roadhouse.

"I'm sorry, sir. There is no number listed."

_Bullshit._ John struggled to control his frustration. "It's got to be there. Is there _any_ Harvelle in Rock county?"

"One moment, please..."

John counted to ten while he waited.

"No, sir. No Harvelle."

The thought sneaked up on him unbidden and pounced. _Ellen's dead, too. They're all dead._ John swallowed. "Thanks." He hung up. _No, not Ellen. Not Ellen, too._

There was no one else he could call. Hunters rarely put down roots; they lived life on the road, as John himself did. They changed identities like clothing. It was what made the few places like Jim's church and Harvelle's Roadhouse so valuable. Without them...

John was on his own.

Where the hell were his sons?

John slammed his fist into the wall. _Remember, damn you! Remember!_ But all that came into his mind was Bill, dying. Again.

No one exists in a vacuum. John was in a hospital and he was sure they had him registered as John Winchester because no one blinked when he gave that as his name the day before. From those facts alone he could deduce that whoever brought him here was someone he knew. The hospital must have more information. At the very least, they should have someone named as his next-of-kin. That was a place to start.

Gathering up his remaining coins, John turned the wheelchair toward the nurses' station. He looked for Cindy and saw her watching him, while working on some papers. She rose at once and came toward him.

"All finished?" she asked brightly.

"Yeah," he agreed.

Cindy moved behind his chair. "Let's get you back to bed, then."

"Wait. Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Since I woke up, no one has asked me about insurance. I guess because I can't remember anything, but I just want to make sure everything's taken care of."

"Oh!" She sounded startled, as if she'd expected a quite different question. "I can check for you." She turned the wheelchair toward the nurses' station, carefully set the brake and walked around the desk to the computer. "It's Winchester, isn't it?" she asked as she sat down.

"John Winchester," he confirmed.

"There's no insurance on file, but..." Cindy tapped keys and he waited impatiently. "Here it is. Your bills are being covered by someone."

"Is there a name?"

Cindy nodded. "Mr D Hunter."

For an instant, John thought, _Dean!_ and his heart leapt. Then he thought, no. Dean wouldn't use such a clumsy alias. Might as well paint a target on your forehead. D. Hunter. It seemed vaguely familiar, but no face came into his mind, no association.

"Cindy, how did I get here? Does the file say?"

"The file is confidential..." she objected.

"It's about _me_, ain't it? Come on."

"Alright." She tapped keys, then looked at him. "It's here, but it's not very helpful. You were a patient at the free clinic on Blackwell and they transferred you here for long term care. Your records from Blackwell don't seem to be on file. They can be pretty slow."

It told him nothing. "Who's listed as my next of kin?" he asked.

"Mr Hunter is the only contact we have for you. He's been informed of your...condition."

John nodded uneasily. "Thanks. I guess I'll be good and go to bed now."

***

At night, a hospital becomes a little quieter, a little slower, but a hospital is never still. John lay awake, his mind too active for rest. He kept turning over the facts in his mind, trying to make sense of what was happening to him.

Fact one: he had been in a coma for at least two weeks, but he didn't seem to be injured. He felt as weak as a kitten, but that seemed to be mostly from inactivity. Less than 48 hours since he woke up and aside from a nagging headache John felt fine. He had found no recent stitches, no new wounds on his body, though he had a few scars he didn't remember. So what in God's name put him in a coma in the first place?

Fact two: he was missing thirteen years of memories. Could be that was related to whatever left him unconscious, but it seemed dangerous to make that assumption. Those missing memories covered a lot that he needed to know. Why did Patty believe he was dead? Where were his sons? Thirteen years...they were adults now. Patty implied that Sammy, at least, was a hunter like John, but she hadn't mentioned Dean.

Fact three: A man using the name Hunter was paying for John's medical treatment, but that man hadn't visited or even called him. Though he still had a nagging feeling he'd heard the name somewhere before, the inconsistency bothered John. He was in a private hospital room, which suggested money wasn't an issue. Yet if this man Hunter was a friend of John's, why hadn't he shown up before now?

There were too many unanswered questions. Perhaps John was being paranoid, but then, he'd learned the hard way that in a world where all too often, something evil _was_ out to get you, paranoia was simply a survival trait. Like breathing.

John slid out of the hospital bed. He couldn't stay here. He needed answers and he would not find them lying in bed. Earlier that day he had searched the room and discovered a small duffel bag in the closet. The bag contained clean clothing that looked like military surplus, boots and a watch. There was no sign of anything that could identify John to himself: his journal was missing and his wedding ring: two things he never travelled without. There was no sign of his car keys, his wallet or any ID. That lack made John even more uneasy about his mysterious benefactor. What if this man was not a friend? What if there was trouble John couldn't remember?

It took him a long time to dress and when he was done he collapsed into a chair, exhausted. This was no good at all. He needed to be stronger than this. When he felt better, he picked up the empty duffel and headed for the door.

It was easy to slip past the nurses' station; the nurse was studying something on the computer screen and didn't even look up as he went by. He took the fire exit which led into a stairwell. From there, he found his way outside quickly and walked around the perimeter of the hospital until he found a parking lot. Here, he leaned against the wall to rest and looked around. There were big lights above the parking lot and he spotted several security cameras. The lot exit opened straight onto the road, though. So the real question was whether those cameras were being monitored. John had no way to know.

A man walked across the parking lot, then, and John grabbed the opportunity. He headed toward the man, staying low. He watched the man take a collection of keys from his pocket and hold it out. A nearby car flashed its lights and beeped loudly. John smiled. It was like a gift. He just had to hope his strength would hold out.

John approached the man as silently as he could. He got within a metre before the man turned around. The man started to say something. John moved, grabbing him and shoving him against the car. He got his arm around the man's neck and tightened his grip. The man struggled. John held on. His struggles became weaker...and stopped. John lowered his victim to the ground and searched him quickly. He found the car keys and the man's wallet with a nice wad of cash. He left the man unconscious on the ground and got into the car.

He felt no guilt. He hadn't harmed the man, and right outside the hospital he would have no difficulty getting help when he woke up. John's need came first.

John's first priority was to get away from the hospital and any possibility of pursuit. He drove into the city looking for the poorer areas. It took a few hours to find the kind of place he sought. There, he abandoned the car and stole another, this one older, a bit beat up and dirty. Something that wouldn't get noticed.

At last, John headed for the highway. When he crossed the state line, he would find a motel, and then he could rest and plan his journey. John knew where he had to go, but he didn't know what he would find when he got there.


	2. Chapter 2

#### April 2008

  


#### Mansfield, Nebraska

Ellen stirred the pan of soup with one hand while holding the telephone to her ear with the other. The rich smell of the soup reminded her of childhood; this was her grandmother's recipe. She found herself thinking of the past more and more since the losses of the past year. Her home and her business, destroyed by demonic fire. The Roadhouse had been insured - over-insured, in fact - but money didn't compensate for the friends who lost their lives in the fire, and couldn't come close to making up for the death of her son.

Which was why Ellen was, once again, arguing with her headstrong daughter about yet another hunt.

"No, Jo, honey," she insisted, struggling to keep her tone even and reasonable. "I don't want you anywhere near..." She broke off as Jo interrupted her. She let Jo marshal her arguments for a few moments, then cut in, "Sweetheart, I can't stop you hunting, but you've got to know your limits. Your father did."

Jo gave her nothing but a stony silence, which was all Ellen usually got when she mentioned Bill.

"Jo, honey?" Ellen prompted.

"I'm here," Jo said sullenly. "Alright, if I can't take the job will you at least make sure _someone_ does?"

Ellen breathed more easily. "Sure, honey. I think Frank Walsh is close by. I'll give him a call."

"_That_ sonofabitch!" Jo swore.

Ellen smiled, glad that Jo couldn't see it. She'd named Frank for exactly that reason: she knew Jo hated him so she wouldn't stick around in the hope of joining the hunt. "Frank's closest," she answered Jo evenly. "Why don't you take a break, sweetheart? I'd love to see you."

"I don't know. Maybe."

Ellen didn't push her. She'd learned the hard way that if she pushed too hard, it just drove Jo further away. Jo was all she had left, now. "Okay, well, let me know what you decide."

"I will, Mom. Bye." Jo hung up before Ellen could say anything more.

Ellen sighed and laid the phone down. She hated the thought of her little Jo out there hunting. But if Jo hadn't defied Ellen, if Jo stayed home at the Roadhouse, she would be dead now. Like Ash. Like so many others who died in the Roadhouse when the demons attacked. As Ellen herself was supposed to have died.

It didn't matter that Ellen was scared for her daughter. Since the devil's gate opened and an army of demons escaped from Hell, there was just too much out there to deprive the world of any hunter willing to fight.

Ellen winced. Even inside her own head that sounded sickeningly noble. She was supposed to be a cynical barkeep, not a hero. She wasn't in this fight to save the world; she just wanted the people she loved safe. But she'd failed at that one, hadn't she? Her Bill was long dead; Ash was dead. And Ellen herself...?

That night at the devil's gate, Ellen almost died. That freaky kid, Jake, told her to put a gun to her own head. Ellen felt her body react to his instruction as if she had no control of her own muscles. She felt the smooth metal in her hand, her finger on the trigger. She tried to move the gun, to blow the kid away, but she couldn't move. She knew that when Jake told her to fire, she would do it. A small, treacherous part of her thought, _Why not?_ Wasn't it time? Hadn't she lost enough? Oh, the thought wasn't serious, but it was _real_ and she knew that when Jake ordered her to die, part of her would be glad to obey.

It wasn't like Ellen to dwell on losses. She pulled herself together and turned the heat under the soup pan down to low. It was ready; she just wasn't hungry yet. The soup would keep.

She carried the phone with her into the next room and called Frank Walsh to let him know about the cluster of possessions Jo discovered. Frank was happy to take the job. Then she leaned back in her armchair and closed her eyes tiredly.

The apartment - purchased with the insurance money from the Roadhouse - was the upper floor of an old hotel. Way back when this was a small town dependent on the railroad, the building had been the centre of town. Now the old railroad was buried under the highway somewhere and the small town was a dying town, not even worth a Starbucks or MacDonalds. Developers had converted the old hotel into eight “luxury” apartments with spacious rooms and high ceilings. Since Ellen moved in the place had become cluttered with boxes and improvised shelving and the luxurious wallpaper was almost completely hidden beneath pinned up photographs, letters and maps. As long as she was frugal with the money left over from the insurance, Ellen wouldn't need to find a paying job for a few years. Longer, if she resorted to the usual hunter's methods of keeping the cash flowing. Instead of working in some new saloon, Ellen was doing what she could to help the hunters in their war: maintaining the old network that used to flow through the Roadhouse, gathering and sharing information and keeping track of as much as possible. The room she sat in was a cluttered mess of newspaper clippings, notebooks and maps. Tools of the hunter's trade.

Bang!

Ellen sat up, startled. Had she fallen asleep? What had woken her?

Bang! Bang!

Who the fuck was pounding on her door? Ellen's gun, a .32 calibre semi-automatic, lay on the table beside her. She carried it with her to the door. Before opening the door, she peered through the peephole. She saw only a silhouette against the light, but Ellen gasped. It looked like...but it couldn't be... John Winchester.

Ellen knew it was stupid to open the door, but she still did it. She had protections around the apartment. She opened the safety catch on her gun and jacked a round into the chamber before touching the door. She had the gun aimed with a steady, two handed grip, before the door opened.

"What are you?" she demanded.

The thing in John Winchester's shape met her eyes calmly. "It's me, Ellen. John."

She shook her head. "John Winchester is dead."

Remarkably, it didn't faze him. He simply nodded. "I know. I mean, I know that's what you've been told, but..." he shrugged, "here I am. You can tell I'm not a ghost."

"You're not John," she insisted. Her mind was racing. She knew about shape shifters, but saw no glow in his eyes, no giveaway flare. A demon might be able to project an illusion...

John said wearily, "I'll take any test you want. Answer any question. You've got to trust me. I need help, Ellen."

The look in his eyes was so very familiar. She felt as if it was only yesterday she last saw him, the day they fought for the first and only time. Only yesterday that she'd screamed at him over her husband's broken body, bitter words, the unfair accusation that he'd wanted Bill dead. Only yesterday that he'd spoken the last words she ever heard from him. _You can't blame me any more than I blame myself, but I never wished him gone. Never. If any part of you believes that, you never knew me. Goodbye, Ellen._

Perhaps it was that long-forgotten guilt, but everything about him was so familiar, from the tone of his voice to the tiny scar beneath his eye. He seemed older than she remembered him, but John always had seemed older than his years. No, this was impossible. John was dead.

Ellen made her choice. She still had her gun pointed at his head. "Alright. Tell me something that only John knows." The creature before her might be something that could read her mind, but it was the best she could do.

He smiled suddenly. "Well, I don't know about _only_ me, but, you've got a green tattoo on your ass. How many people know about that?"

Ellen stared at him. He was right about the tattoo, but what surprised her wasn't that he was right. It was that he'd mentioned it at all. Ellen had expected him to say something about Bill, or perhaps to repeat something she'd said to John when they were alone. Not this.

Belatedly, Ellen tried to hide her surprise. She narrowed her eyes. "What's the tattoo?" she asked.

"You never did tell me," John answered. He looked like he was trying to hide a smirk. "When I said it looked like a butterfly you threatened to knife me."

It was true. Ellen lowered her gun, but kept the safety off and her finger on the trigger. "Alright," she said, taking a step back from the door. She would not explicitly invite him in. Some creatures needed an invitation. Not vampires, but the myth got started somewhere.

John stepped over her threshold, his eyes never leaving her gun. Cautious as always, she thought. Ellen backed away from him slowly. John let the door swing closed behind him and the Yale lock clicked. John moved toward her and only when he was almost in her space did Ellen find she could breathe.

_John? Can you really be John?_

He frowned. "What is it?" he asked. He looked back over his shoulder, then up to the devil's trap marked on the ceiling above her door. He turned back to her with a smile. "That's smart. I didn't even see it. Do I pass, then?"

"I don't know," Ellen answered honestly. "You look like John. You seem like John, but he's dead. You can't be him."

He met her eyes, his expression very serious. "You believe me, or you would have put a bullet in me by now."

Ellen looked back at him steadily. "I'm willing to hear you out. But you'd better have one hell of a convincing explanation." She led him into her living room. "Have a seat."

He gathered up the papers lying on the chair and turned as if to sit down. Instead of sitting, he turned the papers around to read them. He glanced around the room. "Is it as bad out there as this looks?"

"Worse," she answered shortly. She sat down with the gun beside her leg, out of his sight.

He looked again at the papers in his hand. "Holy shit." He sat down. "Ellen, I don't have any explanation. The last clear memory I have is...is the hunt at the Devil's Gate reservoir with Bill. I woke up in a hospital in Sacramento and somehow it's thirteen years later and I have no goddamned clue what happened to me." John spread his hands, a helpless gesture. "I found out a few things. I know Jim's gone, and others. I saw what's left of the Roadhouse. I know everyone thinks I'm dead. But I - "

 Ellen interrupted. "How did you find me?"

John laid the papers he was holding on the arm of the chair. "You told me once that if you ever lost the Roadhouse, you'd want to come back to Mansfield. Where you lived with Jamie. You're the only Harvelle in town."

"You've got a good memory," Ellen said without thinking. She couldn't have mentioned that to John more than once.

"Not really. It was last month to me."

"You seriously don't remember anything?" He sounded so plausible, but how could Ellen trust this?

It hit Ellen, then, how vulnerable she was, alone. It wasn't that she couldn't protect herself: she could. But she was used to having other people around her, others she could turn to for help or rely on in a crisis. This story John was feeding her: Ash could have checked out the salient elements in seconds. The hunters who came through the Roadhouse between jobs would have known tests she didn't, and many of them knew John, too.

John leaned forward, a look of concern on his face. "You look scared. I came because I need help. I took a chance, but, Ellen, if you want me to leave, I'll go."

Ellen forced herself to let go of the gun and clasped her hands on her thighs. "John, with your memory loss I guess you can't know but..." she hesitated. "We had a fight after Bill died. I haven't seen you, in the flesh, more than twice since that day."

He nodded, looking down at his boots. "If you blamed me for what happened, it's no more than I blame myself."

It was almost exactly what he said to her before he walked out of her life. Ellen believed him now. "Maybe so," she answered, "but it was your choice to leave. You would have been welcome back, John." And with those words, Ellen knew she believed that, against all the odds, the real John Winchester was sitting before her. She would never have admitted that to anyone else.

John looked up. "If that's true...Ellen, I don't remember. It's killing me that I can't remember. I thought we'd still be friends, at least. I thought you'd know my boys."

It was as if a cartoon lightbulb went on above her head. The boys. Of course. What else would John care about? "It's nearly a year since I've seen them, but I would have heard if anything happened to them. Your kids are okay, John."

He leapt forward, hope blazing in his eyes. "You know them?"

She rose and went over to the bureau. "I know them. Here..." She kept the photograph in her drawer. Almost nothing survived the fire, but Jo sent this to her shortly afterwards. Ash had taken it with Jo's camera: Jo, Dean and Sam outside the Roadhouse. She handed the picture to John.

He took it from her. "This is..." he broke off as he glanced at the image. "Oh. Oh, God."

"They tracked me down two years ago after you..." Ellen took a deep breath, and continued, "after you _died_, John."

He made a dismissive gesture. "Obviously, I never really died, Ellen..."

She crouched beside his chair, looking up at him. "John. You _died_. Two years ago. Your sons burned your body. If you'd seen them, after, you wouldn't doubt it."

He looked genuinely scared for the first time. "That can't be true. I'm here. I'm alive."

"But it is true." She got up and returned to the bureau. John was silent, taking in what she'd said. Ellen found the bottle and poured them each a generous measure of whiskey. She added a tiny splash of holy water to his glass, even though she was pretty sure the test wasn't necessary. She offered John the glass. He took it from her hand and drank.

"How did I die?" he asked.

"Sam told me it was the demon you were tracking. The one that killed your wife. I never asked for details." It was the truth, so far as it went. But there was more. Ellen remembered that moment at the devil's gate when she saw John there. John's spirit, fighting at his sons' sides. Should she tell him about that moment? Would he understand what it meant? "John, do you really not remember? Not anything?"

"Everything after Bill's death is gone. Ellen, in my head my boys are still sixteen and twelve. And then you show me this." He looked down at the photograph. "I don't even know if I got Bill's body home to you. Did I?"

She nodded. "Yes, John, you did. And you told me the truth about what happened."

John was still staring at the picture in his hands. "I've missed so much. Why can't I remember?"

"You didn't miss it, John. You raised your boys well. You just don't remember."

"But _why_?" he demanded. His hand curled into a fist, crumpling the photograph. He didn't appear to notice. "I've got to find out what happened to me, Ellen. I've got to find my boys."

Ellen knew that was the one thing she couldn't do for him. She believed he was John. _If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like a duck...it's probably a rabid, possessed duck the way my life is going._ But endangering Sam and Dean was something else. She could tell him honestly that she didn't know where they were. She didn't even have a current phone number for them. But she _did_ know how to find them. Bobby Singer would know where the boys were. Hell, they might even be _with_ Bobby.

"What is it?" John asked. "You thought of something."

"I was just..." Ellen covered quickly. "I was wondering why you looked me up, instead of Bobby. I know you met him at the Roadhouse, but I guess you didn't become friends until later. After."

John frowned. "Bobby?"

"Singer. It doesn't matter." Ellen finished her whiskey. "Alright, John. Let's look at this logically. I want you to tell me everything you know, and we'll figure out what's happened to you. While we talk...are you hungry?"

John laughed suddenly, the rich, warm laugh she remembered so well. "Am I hungry? Well, the last decent meal I remember was thirteen years ago."

Ellen laughed with him. When was the last time she really laughed? She looked at John and realised it had been like this between them all those years ago. He could always make her smile. Just like Bill. She swallowed. "Fine. Then you can talk while we eat."

***

Over chicken soup and more whiskey, John told Ellen everything he could remember. It wasn't very much. He wondered if she truly believed him. Ellen seemed to accept his story very easily, but Ellen had always been tough to read. It was a talent she had.

"Hunter?" Ellen repeated, when John reached that part of the story. "Who'd use an alias like that?"

John's heart sank. "That's one of the things I was hoping you could tell me," he admitted. "I have this feeling I know the name, or something about the name, but it's...just out of reach, you know?"

"No one I know uses Hunter as an alias," Ellen said. "Think about it, John. Just close your eyes for a moment. What associations does the name bring up for you?"

John did as she suggested, closing his eyes. "Hunter," he said quietly. "D. Hunter." For an instant he felt remembered fire on his skin, heat like a napalm explosion and the scent of...of... But it was gone again. He opened his eyes. "Vietnam," he said.

"Is he one of your old unit?" Ellen asked.

John shook his head at once. "No, I remember all the names from those days. But maybe... Hell, I don't know. You asked, and I just thought _Vietnam_."

"It's a place to start." Ellen reached for her telephone.

"Who are you calling?"

"My daughter," Ellen answered. "Jo, honey, I need some research help..."

John listened in amazement. He remembered Jo as a little girl in pigtails, always underfoot in the Roadhouse saloon. He remembered teaching her to play poker, betting pieces of candy. Bill insisted that he take the candy with him when he won, to teach her that when you lose, you really lose. He remembered how thrilled she had been the first time she cleaned him out (he'd let her win, but she didn't know that). _That_ little girl was a hunter now?

He looked down at the photograph Ellen had given him and this time recognised Jo as the young woman standing between his boys. Beside her, Dean frowned at the camera. Perhaps the sun was in his eyes, but it looked to John as if he were impatient with the whole process. He was wearing John's leather jacket. The last time John saw Dean he was sixteen years old. A precocious sixteen, with hints of the man he would become, but in the photograph John saw that potential fulfilled. The change in Sammy was even more dramatic. His little boy was all grown up and he towered over Jo and his brother, smiling uncertainly at the camera. They'd lived a lifetime in the thirteen years John couldn't remember. Something had been stolen from him, and he hated that he'd missed so much of their lives.

Ellen finished her call, and John blinked to clear his vision.

"If 'Hunter' is an alias it'll take a while, but if it's his real name Jo will have something by tomorrow," Ellen reported.

"That quickly?" John was surprised.

"Jo's good with computers..." Ellen began, then stopped, looking unhappy.

"Ellen?"

She hook her head. "I was going to say she's not as good as Ash. He died when the Roadhouse burned."

"I'm sorry." What else could John say? He hadn't really known Ash: he was an odd child, not fond of strangers.

"A lot of good people were killed that day, John," Ellen answered. She gave him a look as if he was supposed to know what happened. Had he been involved somehow? He didn't know, and didn't ask. John had seen the wreckage of the place, because it was the first place he'd tried in his search for Ellen. The destruction was too complete for it to be an accidental fire. That and the neat row of unmarked graves spoke for itself.

Ellen was frowning. "You know, John, I think maybe we're asking the wrong questions here."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, instead of asking why you've lost thirteen years of memories, maybe the question is why is _that_ hunt the last thing you can remember?"

It was a good question. John nodded. "Okay. But I still don't know the answer."

"Well... This is going to sound crazy, but is it possible you don't remember because you haven't lived through those years. Yet. I mean, what if something happened after that hunt..."

John understood where she was going and shook his head. "This ain't _Star Trek_, Ellen. Or are you suggesting that some kind of doppelganger raised my boys?"

"No," Ellen answered at once. "No. I don't know what I'm suggesting. It just seemed like a good explanation."

John couldn't help smiling. "It doesn't explain anything, sweetheart. It may be consistent with the facts, but that's all. Could be a demon's work. That's a theory I can buy." It wasn't a theory he liked, though. What else had the power to raise the dead?

Ellen nodded thoughtfully. "It's more plausible, sure. But, John, what could any demon hope to gain from bringing you back?"

_Sammy, perhaps, though I can't see how..._ Aloud, John said only, "I wish I knew, Ellen. I surely wish I knew."

***

Not long after, John suggested it was time for him to leave. He had seen enough of her apartment to observe she had only one bedroom, and the papers all over the living room meant he couldn't expect to sleep on her couch. He didn't really have a plan when he came here; he'd only been focussed on finding Ellen.

Ellen nodded. "Where are you staying?"

John shrugged. "I didn't notice the name of the place. I saw a motel on my way into town."

"Which means," Ellen guessed, "you don't have a room yet."

"Well, no, but..."

"You can stay here, John," Ellen interrupted.

Of course, it was all such a long time ago for Ellen. John gazed at her, remembering.

***

#### March 1995

  


#### Harvelle's Roadhouse

John was loading his bag into the trunk of the Impala when he heard someone behind him: footsteps rustling the dry Nebraska grass. He turned quickly, reaching for his weapon.

It was Bill. John didn't relax, but he didn't draw the gun.

"Leaving so soon?" Bill asked him with his usual, easy smile.

John had his excuse ready. "I picked up a trail in North Dakota," he lied smoothly. He glanced at Bill's belt and noted with some relief that he was unarmed.

Bill's smile never faltered. "You're a good man, John. Ellen told me what happened."

John thought that unlikely. He searched his friend's eyes for signs of anger and found none. Ellen hadn't told him the truth, John guessed. So he asked, warily, "What did she tell you?"

"Ellen tried to get in your pants. You turned her down."

John turned his back on Bill and slammed the Impala's trunk closed. That was the truth, near enough, but if Ellen really told Bill that, why wasn't he angry? John thought he knew Bill pretty well, and Bill wasn't _that_ good an actor.

"John," Bill said from behind him, and his voice had lost all trace of humour, "we should talk. You want to come back inside?"

_Hell, no._ John turned around, frowning. "You ain't mad?"

"With you? No."

Bill's answer sent a trickle of ice down John's spine. Bill's marriage was his business, but if he'd hurt Ellen, John was going to make it his. "And Ellen?" he asked.

Bill actually laughed. "Don't make it sound like such a threat, man. I'm not angry with either of you. Come inside. Drink's on the house."

Reassured, if confused, John followed Bill back into the Roadhouse. The saloon was empty of customers, which usually meant the children would be running around, but there was no sign of Ash or little Jo, nor even of Ellen.

Bill walked around the bar and set out two whiskey glasses.

John laid his hand over one of them. "It's early, Bill, and I've got a long way to drive." He sat down on a bar stool.

"Alright." Bill handed John a Coke without asking what he wanted, and poured whiskey into a glass for himself. He leaned on the bar without touching his drink. "John, I appreciate you telling Ellen no. There ain't a lot of hunters with that kind of honour. And you were careful not to give her away, too. Ellen was right about you."

_Ellen was right._ John gazed at Bill, wondering what those words really meant. "Are you telling me that was some kind of test?"

"Not the way you think."

"What does that mean?"

Bill lifted his whiskey glass and turned it in his hand so the golden liquid swirled around in the glass. "First, I want to make it clear where I stand on this. If you and Ellen got an itch you need to scratch, you go right ahead."

John sighed, opening the Coke bottle so he wouldn't have to meet Bill's eyes. "Bill, I don't - "

"I mean it, John. You've gotta understand this. I love my wife, and our marriage is solid. But I never did set much store by this faithful-unto-death thing."

John set the Coke bottle down between them. "Yeah? Well, _I_ do. And I don't think you're as okay with it as you pretend, Bill."

"It ain't pretence, John. I never told you how I came to marry Ellen, did I?"

"Not my business," John said gruffly. He drank some Coke. He didn't like the stuff. Too sweet.

Bill sipped his whiskey. "When I first met Ellen, in Mansfield, she was living with another woman. She and Jamie were a real scandal in a small town, I can tell you. We were a threesome."

"And I thought that only happens in movies," John said sarcastically.

"They invited me in because they wanted kids. I was already hunting and it seemed like a good deal to me. Better'n most of us get. Lasted a few years." Bill drained his whiskey and poured himself another. "Until Jamie died."

John watched Bill's face while he poured the drink. It was a look he recognised. A look he'd worn himself. "She's Ash's mother," John said with sudden inspiration.

"Got it in one," Bill agreed. "I was on a hunt when... The doc said it was a hard labour, she lost a lot of blood. Then she caught an infection; she just wasn't strong enough."

John remembered the day Dean was born. He'd been scared for Mary; she seemed to be in so much pain. But nothing short of the end of the world could have induced him to leave her side. It was a miracle how quickly Mary forgot the pain and blood when she finally held their baby in her arms.

Losing Mary almost killed him. John looked at Bill. Did Bill love this woman he was talking about? Or was their relationship merely the convenience he was trying to paint it? Bill was looking down at his empty glass. The corners of his mouth were turned down. The skin around his eyes was tight. Yeah, he'd loved her. John waited, allowing Bill to take the time he needed.

When Bill looked up, his usual smile was back in place, his eyes clear. "We - the three of us - always said we wouldn't marry, because one of the girls would have to be left out. After we lost Jamie, Ellen married me so she could legally adopt her son. Our son. We fell in love...later."

Bill's last words reminded John where this conversation began. He thought maybe he was getting an inkling of what Bill was trying to say.

Bill met John's eyes, hesitating over what he wanted to say next. "When I said a minute ago that Ellen was right about you, it's because..." His voice trailed off again.

John wasn't interested in guessing. "Just say it, Bill," he said irritably.

"Alright. Three in the marriage suited me. Suited Ellen, too. We both want you in our family."

And _that_ John had not expected. He stared at Bill. He almost asked if Bill meant what it sounded like, but didn't. He knew the answer.

He should have taken that whiskey.

Another question came to mind then and John could not figure out a way to ask without sounding like a complete idiot. John had feelings for Ellen. Feelings he'd been fighting for a long time because she was another man's wife. He liked Bill and considered him a friend. He trusted both of them more than he trusted most hunters. But this was a step beyond friendship.

John hadn't been with anyone, but for isolated one night stands, since he lost Mary.

He had to say something. The silence was getting thick enough to drown in. John twirled the Coke bottle between his fingers, thinking. Finally, he met his friend's eyes. "I don't know, Bill. One of the reasons I refused Ellen's pass was because it couldn't be meaningless with her. Casual is all I can do, since..." John didn't finish the sentence, but let his gaze fall to the wedding ring he still wore. He thought Bill would understand. He took a deep breath and looked up again. "What exactly is it you want?"

Bill's look showed he understood. "No expectations, man. No pressure. Give it a try. If we mesh, we talk. If not; no harm, no foul." Bill grinned suddenly. "Either way, it'll be a good time. Are you in?"

John was half convinced he would regret this forever, but he was certain he'd regret it if he said no. He nodded. "Yeah. I'm in."

Seven weeks later, Bill Harvelle was dead.

***

#### April 2008

John glanced around the room. "If you've got a spare blanket I can sleep in an armchair," he suggested.

Ellen's expression said clearly that she thought he was being an idiot. "I don't have a second bedroom, but I do have a big bed. And you've seen me naked before, John."

"Ellen..." He tried to articulate his objection but the words simply wouldn't come.

She shook her head. "I offered sleep, John. No strings. No expectations."

She didn't understand. Of course she didn't. In John's memory, it was less than a week since he last held her in his arms. It was years to her. John could still conjure up the taste of her on his tongue, the feel of her body beneath him. Could he sleep beside her and not think about those things? He was a man, not a goddamned saint!

But he wasn't going to get a better offer. John nodded. "Okay. I guess I can be a gentleman."

Ellen smiled suddenly. "Who do you think you're kidding?"

"Alright. I'll keep my dick to myself. Better?" That promise, at least, he knew he could keep.

"That I believe. Come on. I've got a spare toothbrush."


	3. Chapter 3

When John emerged from the bathroom, he was wearing his t-shirt and briefs, nothing else. The rest of his clothing was neatly folded. He laid the clothing atop the dresser and turned to look toward the bed.

Ellen was already in bed, the comforter covering most of her body. Only her head and shoulders were visible, and she wore a pale grey nightshirt. She'd told the truth when she said it was a big bed. But as he walked toward the free side of it, John couldn't help remembering the last time they'd shared a bed. It was the night before he and Bill left for California, all three of them in the bed together. John held her in his arms, kissing her mouth, her neck, her breasts, while Bill made love to her. While she came, crying out. By the time he slid into her, she was whispering his name over and over...

Thirteen years ago. She had moved on. He should, too.

John bent down to fold back the comforter.

"John, wait." Ellen said. She slid across the bed to his side, pushing the comforter away. She was gazing at his body. At first, he thought she was looking at his groin, but her eyes moved lower and her look wasn't sexual at all. She reached out to touch his thigh. "I think that blows the time travel theory," she said thoughtfully.

John looked down to the place she touched. It was a large, round scar on his thigh. He had noticed it at the hospital. It appeared to be a recent injury; the skin around it was pinkish and thin. But he didn't recall the injury. "I have several scars I don't recognise," he told Ellen.

"Turn around," she instructed.

John didn't move, because he knew what she wanted to see. "There's no exit wound," he said. "I know what you're thinking."

She circled the scar with her fingertips, exploring the skin around it. "It looks like a high calibre bullet wound, close range impact, but if that's it, there should be an exit wound."

John's body reacted to her touch, his cock swelling. He hoped the t-shirt was long enough to conceal it. "If it were what it looks like, Ellen, I'd be missing a leg. From the angle a bullet would have gone right through the bone."

"Mm, you could be right. Maybe it was special ammo, like safety rounds."

John had no idea. Ellen knew he had no memory of it. But John didn't say it. What he did say was, "Sweetheart, you are fucking up my noble resolutions."

Ellen withdrew her hand, but she didn't get up. "I noticed," she said softly.

John took a step backward. "Damn it, Ellen!" _She_ was the one who asked him to stay. _She_ was the one who made it clear this was only platonic.

Ellen moved back, making space for him on the bed. She looked up at him. "It's been a long time, John."

John slid into the bed. The sheets were cool against his skin and he lay back, trying to pretend his hard-on wasn't an issue. He shifted onto his side, facing her. "It's only a long time for _you_."

She didn't understand. How could she? Ellen was older, her hair was different but she was still the same Ellen.

Almost against his will, John reached out to brush a lock of hair back from her face. Ellen turned her face toward his touch, closing her eyes. That small gesture told him everything he needed to know. It gave the lie to her earlier words. John slid his fingers into her hair, cupping the back of her head as if in preparation for a kiss. But even then, he held himself back from her.

Ellen leaned into him, anticipating.

"Ellen," John said quietly, "Bill is barely cold..."

Her eyes opened and a small frown creased her brow. "It was thirteen years ago."

"Not to me, Ellen. Don't you see?"

Ellen moved toward him, her body not quite touching his. "John, I understand. It took both of us to fuck up what we had. If this is a second chance..."

John nearly asked what she meant. _It took both of us to fuck up._ What happened between them? Did it matter?

"It won't kill you to quit being stubborn," Ellen smiled.

"It might," John answered, and kissed her.

Ellen closed the space between them, her lips parting beneath John's kiss. He could taste the whiskey on her tongue. John probed her mouth gently, using his tongue to part her lips further. He ran his tongue over the smoothness of her teeth, into the roof of her mouth, exploring. John breathed her breath and Ellen moaned into his mouth.

Her hands slid down his back from his shoulders to his waist. She gathered his t-shirt into her hands and raised it upward. John broke away from the kiss long enough to pull the t-shirt over his head. He lifted Ellen's nightshirt; beneath it, she was nude. Ellen raised her arms and he stripped the nightshirt off her. He threw it to one side. He gazed down at Ellen's nude body. She was older, but as beautiful as ever.

"God, Ellen," John groaned as he rolled on top of her. He bent to kiss her neck, his unshaven cheek rubbing the sensitive skin. He tasted the salt of her skin, nibbling her neck. Ellen held his head to her, gently guiding his mouth lower. John obeyed her urging, kissing the small hollow at the base of her throat, licking along the tendons of her neck. He bit down gently on her collarbone, a small scrape of his teeth.

"John," she breathed, and again, "John..." She moved her hips, rubbing herself against him, teasing.

John cupped her breast with his free hand and felt her nipple harden within his palm. He worked her nipple between his fingers, just to hear her moan. He loved knowing she was feeling good...knowing _he_ was making her feel good. He let his hand drift to the perfect valley between her breasts and spread his fingers wide, enjoying her warm flesh under his hand. Ellen arched her back, pressing into his touch, wordlessly encouraging him.

Thoughts of guilt over Bill were far away as John slid his hand lower over her stomach. He found the familiar ridge of a scar just above her navel. She had told him it was the reason she left the hunting to others, but had never explained that. Maybe she thought the existence of the scar spoke for itself. John rubbed the scar gently, relearning the texture of her skin.

Ellen's hands roamed John's bare back, and she was doing the same thing he was: her fingers finding old scars: the small depression of an old bullet wound; the pale line where a werewolf nearly split his spine in two; a scar across his scapula that he didn't remember. She slid her hand beneath the waistband of the underpants and squeezed his buttock. "Take these off," she ordered.

John kissed Ellen's breast. He circled her nipple with his tongue and heard her whisper his name again. He savoured the taste of her flesh, drawing her nipple into his mouth. He sucked, brief but hard. Only then did John release her and sit up to discard the underwear.

Ellen curled around his body from behind, worming her way beneath his arm, kissing his stomach, her hand sliding between his thighs. John lifted his legs back onto the bed and lay back, stroking Ellen's hair, anticipating. Ellen moved to straddle his legs. She looked up the length of his body a gleam in her eyes as if he were a delicious meal. She stroked his cock, a teasing smile playing around her lips. John closed his eyes, enjoying her touch. He felt her hair fall like a soft curtain around his groin and her warm breath on his skin. Then she was sucking him into the delicious heat of her mouth. John threw his head back, gasping. Ellen took in as much of him as she could hold, then slowly, slowly drew her lips up his shaft, creating a strong suction, her tongue working the underside of his cock. It was exquisite. John balled his fists in the sheet beneath him, fighting the urge to thrust, to fuck her mouth, hard and brutal.

"Ellen! Oh, please..."

She raised her head, flipping back her hair to look at him, her eyes questioning.

"Turn around," John begged her. "I won't last, Ellen. Let me..." He wanted to taste her. He wanted to bring her off with his mouth, taste her orgasm on his tongue.

Ellen licked her lips. "Maybe later." She crawled further up the bed, over his body. Her breasts brushed his chest and he raised his hands to caress, pinching her nipples. Ellen leaned down to kiss him and whispered against his lips, "Fuck me, John."

He grinned back. "Well, if you insist." He grabbed her and rolled them both over so she was on her back and he on top. Ellen wrapped her legs around him, opening herself to him and John entered her in one long thrust. He kissed Ellen as he began to move inside her. Ellen met his every thrust, her body and his matched in a perfect rhythm. She turned her head to one side, breaking the kiss, panting for breath.

John knew he wouldn't last much longer. He buried his face in her neck, breathing in the scent of her. Ellen cried out, not his name this time, but a wordless cry of pleasure, her hips thrusting to meet his as John climaxed with her, filling her at last.

After, John held her in his arms, stroking her back gently until she slept.

***

Ellen woke up alone. Her mind still heavy with sleep, at first she found nothing strange in her solitude. She turned onto her side and noticed she was nude. The memory came back in a rush. John Winchester showing up at her door. John making love to her. She ran her hands through her sleep-tangled hair. Jesus, she must be really desperate if she was conjuring up a ghost so she could get laid.

She blinked, shaking off sleep and sat up in the bed. Her gaze fell to the pillow beside her. The pillow bore a dent in the middle, as if someone had slept there. Ellen leaned over and looked more closely. She found a few dark hairs on the pillow.

It wasn't a dream. It was real.

Then why was she alone?

Ellen found her nightshirt on the floor and pulled it on over her head. She left the edroom wearing only the nightshirt, the wooden floor cool against her bare feet.

She found John in her living room. She waited in the open doorway for a few moments, silently observing him. John was examining her research and notes. He had moved most of her paperwork and sorted it into several stacks on the coffee table. He was engrossed in an article clipped from a newspaper. He tapped a pen against his lips as he read, and wrote something across the top of the article before laying it down on one of the piles of paper.

Always the hunter. What else would he be doing?

"I can hear you breathing," John said without looking up. He picked up another article.

"How long have you been in here?" Ellen asked.

John did look up then. "A while," he answered, and she thought that, maybe, she detected a hint of an apology. "I got up for some water and..."

"You got distracted?" she suggested with a smile.

He didn't smile back. "How did it get so bad, Ellen? All this is... The last I remember, we were holding a line. Maybe not winning, but holding. Now this...it looks like a war. It looks like we're _losing_ the war."

Ellen moved into the room at last. Things had been getting steadily worse for years, and went downhill fast after the devil's gate opened a year before. But of course, John had no memory of those years. So she answered simply, "Yes."

"I know Jim Murphy died. Who else have we lost?"

Ellen sat on the arm of John's chair. "I can give you a list of dead hunters, John, but that isn't the problem. Not a lot of hunters live to get old. We've always had losses."

"Then what _is_ the problem?"

"Last year an army of demons escaped from Hell. Two hundred or more of them. Dean killed their...their king, or general, but - "

"_My_ Dean?" John sounded genuinely surprised.

Ellen smiled. "Oh, yeah. Your Dean. He's a hell of a hunter, John, you'll be proud of him. He bought us time to get the word out and start the fight, but what we had was an army of demons with no leader. Chaos, rivalries, with innocent humans caught in the crossfire. And while hunters go after the demons, the less apocalyptic stuff is getting missed."

"I never dreamed it could get this bad," John said quietly. He laid the article he held aside and stood up, facing Ellen. "If it's true that I died...Ellen, why am I alive now? Did something bring me back to fight this fight? Why _me_? Why not Bill or Jim..." his voice trailed off.

"Or Mary," Ellen said for him.

John looked down at his hand, where his wedding ring should have been. "Yes," he agreed.

"I'm sorry, John." Ellen felt some empathy for his grief, but it was one way in which they were polar opposites. When Bill died, Ellen's grief was no less than his for Mary. The difference was that Ellen had learned long ago to put grief aside and move on. She didn't stop loving Bill, Jamie, Ash or anyone else she'd lost. She would always miss them. But she wouldn't allow the dead to run her life. John, she thought, had never really recovered from his losses. They grew heavier, a burden on him, instead of lighter with the years.

She knew that John had loved her, for the short time they had been lovers, but she would never be his Mary. She would never even come close.

John's expression became grim, his eyes flint-hard. "The dead should stay dead, Ellen. We both know that. Whatever brought me back had some purpose."

"We'll find out, John," she began reassuringly. "We've got a lead to this man, Hunter..."

John shook his head. "That's a distraction. All this..." he gestured at the carefully sorted research, "is what matters."

Ellen nodded agreement. This was the John Winchester she remembered. When they talked the evening before he had seemed unfocussed, unsure of himself. She hadn't been surprised, all things considered. Looking at him now she saw the determined, obsessed hunter he had always been since she met him. He had made a decision and what they shared last night would mean nothing at all. But Ellen was the wife and mother of hunters. She wouldn't expect anything less from John.

"What's your plan?" she asked.

"Do you have a car I can borrow?"

_That depends where you plan to take it._ "I have a car," she answered carefully. "Where are you going?"

"I've got - " John stopped, then corrected himself. "I used to have a lockup in Lincoln. I bought a twenty year lease so it should still be there. I've got weapons, tools, some books."

She nodded again. "So you get your arsenal back. Then what?"

"Find my boys. Then get back in this fight." John moved toward her. "You said last night that you don't know where my boys are. But you know something, don't you?"

She admitted it. "They've been working with..." she stopped herself before she let Bobby's name slip, "...another hunter. I know where he lives. They might not be there but he'll know where they are."

John must have noticed her caution, but he simply nodded. "You'll take me there?"

"Of course."

***

"Damn it!" Jo swore, then closed the telnet window quickly as another customer in the internet café glanced over. Another firewall she couldn't get through. She sipped her coffee and struck another lead off her list.

At times like this, she really missed her brother. Ash was a spaz and a pain in the ass, but he could hack into anything. She had been searching for "D. Hunter" since the café opened and kept coming up blank.

Her mom told her the man she was looking for may have served in Vietnam. Jo found a record of a Sergeant David Hunter in the US Marine Corps who did indeed serve in Saigon and was discharged (honourably) from the Corps after the US withdrawal. But she could find nothing else in his service record, no beginning of service, no details of engagements.

She figured maybe he was CIA and those records were sealed. So she tried for more mundane details. What she found was almost frightening. Sergeant David Hunter had never been born, never attended school, never held a drivers' license and, so far as she could find, never married or died. It was as if he existed only for the few years he served in the Marine Corps.

Obviously, the name was an alias or a cover. Jo tried a wider search for the name: Lexis Nexis, news services, DMV records, phone directories. Hunter wasn't an uncommon name so she got a lot of hits. Patiently, she sorted through them and whenever he found a D. Hunter of approximately the right age, she tried to follow the trail. She got nothing.

The man was either a spy, a master criminal or someone else with a lot of practice staying off the grid. Someone like a hunter.

The computer Jo was using beeped an alert and her IM window sprang open. She glanced at it, intending to shut it down. The message window was blank but there was a username, as if someone deliberately messaged her with nothing.

The username was **HunterD**.

Jo thought about it for a moment, then typed _Hi._

_Where is John?_

Jo frowned. She typed: _Who? Who R U?_

_You know my name. Where is John Winchester?_

Jo stared at the message for about thirty seconds. The question made no sense. Everyone knew by now. Finally, she simply answered the question. _John's dead._

_Why are you looking for me?_

Jo didn't answer. When no further message came, she shut off the computer and headed out of the café. She wanted to put some distance between herself and that place before she called her mom.

Who was David Hunter? And what on earth did this have to do with John Winchester?

***

Dean laid the two sacks of food and supplies on the hood of his car and reached into his pocket for his keys. He might have overdone it a little: he'd bought far more than they were going to need. He wanted to take care of Sam for as long as he could. Who knew what Sam was going to do when Dean was gone? They'd talked plans, but Dean knew that would mean nothing when it all went down.

He loaded the supplies into the Impala's rear seat and climbed in. He slid his keys into the ignition and ran one hand over the wheel, caressing. Dean had spent so much of his life in this car. In some ways she was more companion to him than the living people in his world.

Dean pulled the cell phone from his pocket. He scrolled through the stored numbers. Girls he barely remembered (and one or two he wished he didn't), some other hunters and a very short list of people he truly cared about: Sam, Bobby, Lisa... He stopped at Lisa's number. The urge to call her was almost overwhelming, but what could he say to her now? Lisa knew nothing about his fucked-up life and she was better off that way.

He called Bobby instead.

"Hey, Bobby, it's Dean."

"Dean!" Bobby sounded genuinely happy to hear from him. "I was just about to call you. How are you both holding up?"

_Subtle, Bobby. Real subtle._ "We're...okay," Dean answered. "I'm just calling because...we're gonna be out of touch for a few days."

"Why? Where you goin'?"

"There's a place in the mountains. High enough that there's no cell signal. We're takin' some time off."

There was a long silence on Bobby's end. Dean stayed quiet. He knew Bobby would understand that he'd called to say goodbye.

The cabin in the mountains was a place they spent a few summers when they were little kids, before Dad decided Dean was old enough to watch his little brother while he went hunting for weeks at a time. Dean had no idea who owned it: it certainly wasn't their dad, but he knew no one had lived there between the summers when John had used the place. Amazingly, the old cabin was still standing, though it looked as if no one had used it since the last time they were there. Dean and Sam were going to hole up in the cabin until the Hell hounds came for Dean. If demons were good timekeepers, that would be two nights from now.

Dean expected they would keep hunting right up to the end, but he'd changed his mind two weeks earlier. A hunt went south, a few people died. It made Dean realise that if they were working a job when his deal came due, more people could die than just Dean. He wasn't about to take anyone else down with him. When he told his brother what he was thinking, Sam asked, _If we could go anywhere in the world, do anything at all, for your last... What would it be?_ Smart-ass answers involving Vegas or Mexico came to mind but then Dean thought of the cabin. They'd spend happy times there. They'd been a family there. And it was isolated: no other people around to get caught in the crossfire.

Bobby's voice broke into his thoughts. "Do you boys have some plan?" He sounded hopeful.

Dean hated to squash that hope, but he answered truthfully. "We've got one last shot. It's always been an option, but... I'm not gonna let Sam take it."

"Why the hell not?" Bobby demanded. He sounded shocked.

"Oh, I want to. You have no idea how much. But if we try it, Sam dies. That's the deal and I...I can't do it, Bobby."

He heard Bobby sigh. "Yeah. I hear ya, son."

Dean swallowed, hard. "Bobby, take care of Sam for me. If he'll let you."

Bobby made an impatient noise. "I woulda done that anyway, you ass."

"I know," Dean said.

Silence fell between them once more. There were a hundred things Dean wanted to say. He couldn't say any of them, not out loud. But maybe Bobby understood anyway.

Dean was about to say goodbye when Bobby cleared his throat gruffly. "Uh, listen. I know you and your brother have other things on your minds, but I had a call from Ellen Harvelle this morning. She wants to talk to you boys."

"What about?" Dean asked, glad for the change of subject.

"She didn't say. Sounded important to her, though. You, er, might want to let Sam know."

And there it was again. Dean nodded. "I'll tell him. Goodbye, Bobby."

"Yeah. Goodbye, Dean." There was a _click_ as Bobby hung up his phone, and Dean was left holding a dead line.

Dean let the phone fall from his hand. He drew in a deep breath. He remembered his dad at the hospital, just before he died.

_Is this really you talkin'?_

_Yeah, it's really me._

_Why are you sayin' this stuff?_

Dean had his answer, now.

Dean pushed a tape into the stereo, turned the volume up as loud as it would go, and started to drive.

It was a long drive up to the cabin, and for the last mile and a half there was no road. When he finally saw the cabin ahead, Sam was outside, standing on a box in front of the door. He turned around when he heard the Impala and waved. There was a paintbrush in his hand.

Dean parked the Impala beside the woodpile and shut off the music just as the opening bars of _Highway to Hell_ split the air. He grabbed the shopping bags from the back seat and walked up to the cabin.

It was a two-room timber cabin. There was no electricity. Heating came from an old iron stove which miraculously was still working. There was a well out back for water and a lime pit for waste. The two beds were intact, though the mattresses were old and damp. But some waterproof canvas sheets and sleeping bags would make it comfortable enough. The place was primitive, but Dean loved it.

He looked at the symbols Sam had painted in white above the door. "Nice paint job," he called.

Sam jumped down from his box. I put salt down everywhere and a devil's trap inside the door. It should keep us off the radar until..." Sam stopped. He'd been doing that a lot lately. Sam would start to say something and he'd just cut it off when he realised he was about to refer to Hell, or to demons, or to how much time Dean had left. It was as if he thought not mentioning it could keep it from happening.

Sam came down the three steps from the cabin and took one of the bags from Dean. "You bought a lot."

Dean grinned. "Beer, whiskey..."

"Yeah, right."

"I had a call from Bobby," Dean said, hoping to change the subject before one of them had to joke about the condemned man's last meal.

The sudden hope in Sam's face was painful to see. "Bobby? Did he...?"

Dean shook his head sadly. "No, Sammy."

Sam turned away from him, heading back up to the cabin. "Oh. Right." He walked through the door into the dark interior.

Dean pressed on. "He said Ellen's been trying to reach us. I told him I'd give you the message."

Sam spun around quickly. "Ellen?"

Dean walked past him to put the bag he was holding down on the rickety table. "Yeah. We can drive into town and call her if you..." He caught sight of Sam's face, then. "Dude, what? You look like you've seen a ghost." Dean grinned, trying for a little levity. "Which, you know, if you _have_, we can deal."

Sam shrugged. "No. No ghosts. I...I had a weird dream last night."

"You were dreaming about Ellen? Dude, you really need to get laid."

Sam sat down on one of the beds. He looked up at Dean, his expression serious. "It wasn't about Ellen, exactly. I dreamed about Dad."

All humour fled. As Dean started to move toward his brother, a beam of sunlight shone through the cabin's newly cleaned window. Within that beam of light a million specks of dust whirled, giving the impression that it was a solid barrier between Dean and Sam. Then Dean stepped into the light and the momentary illusion was gone.

He sat down beside Sam. "Okay. So what did you dream?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees: a casual gesture to cover up inner tension.

"It's stupid. I mean... I dreamed about Dad. He was looking for us, kinda like we spent so long looking for him, remember? He went to Ellen for help." Sam shrugged helplessly. "It was just a dream."

Dean reached out and squeezed Sam's shoulder awkwardly. "I know. I've been thinking it, too."

"Thinking what?"

"That if Dad were here, he might know something that would help."

Sam shook his head. "Dad knew a lot that we don't, but even he couldn't find a way out of this one. That bitch tied it down too well."

Dean answered quietly, "I don't know, Sammy. He found his own way out of the pit."

"We don't know that. Not for sure."

_Fine. Whatever._ Dean stood up. "Well, I gave you the message. You want to call Ellen?" He already knew what Sam would say.

Sam seemed to think it over. "No. We agreed, no more hunting. Whatever Ellen wants, it can wait."

***

Bobby hung up the phone before he could say something unfortunate. He stared at the silent telephone for a long time. _Damn it, Dean. Damn it to Hell. Why'd you have to make that deal?_

Bobby had done everything possible to help Dean break his contract. But there was no way. After months of tracking down every little lead, Bobby had nothing left.

He understood the boys' desire to spend Dean's last days alone. It might not be the smartest move, but Bobby understood it. _Take care of Sam for me._ Yeah. Bobby would do that...whatever it meant.

_Damn it, Dean._

The rumble of a motor came from outside the house. Bobby moved to the window and looked for the source of the sound. It was an old Volkswagen camper van, the kind popular with kids in the 70's. The van was heading toward Bobby's place at speed. Bobby didn't know anyone who drove a van like that. He moved away from the window, peering through the dirty glass from the side until he could see the driver.

His eyes widened when he recognised the man at the wheel. No...it couldn't be.

Bobby grabbed his shotgun and positioned himself where he could see the door. He waited. He heard the van's engine stop. He heard the slam of its door.

The next sound was a knock on Bobby's door. It surprised him: demons were not usually so polite.

"It ain't locked," he called.

The handle turned. The door swung open. The man who strode in looked no different from the last time Bobby saw him. He was a tall, African American man. His skin was very dark, as if he spent most of his time outside, in places where the sun was a lot hotter than South Dakota. He wore a bandana over short hair, faded blue jeans over cowboy boots and a plaid shirt that was open at the neck to reveal an amulet on a leather thong. He stopped when he saw Bobby's gun, a few steps into the room and, perhaps coincidentally, in the centre of the devil's trap painted on the ceiling above.

"That's a pleasant welcome," he said. His voice carried a hint of an accent that was not American.

Bobby gazed at him calmly. "You're dead," he declared. "I saw you die, David."

David Hunter shook his head. "You saw me _fall_," he corrected. "Did you never wonder why you found no body? You strike me as the kind of man who would have looked."

"I did," Bobby conceded, "but no human could have survived that fall."

He expected some attempt to deny it, or an outlandish explanation, but David answered evenly, "That is true. No one else could have." He spread his hands wide. "Go ahead, if you're going to shoot."

Bobby cocked the shotgun pointedly. "Walk forward," he ordered.

David looked up, saw the devil's trap above him and smiled. He walked forward right out of its circle. "I am not a demon, Bobby. Nor a vampire."

Bobby lowered the shotgun. "Then what are you? That was a five hundred foot drop, with only rock to land on. You'd better have a damn fine explanation."

"I'll explain, but there isn't much time. I need your help, Bobby."

"With what?" Bobby asked.

"The Winchesters."


	4. Chapter 4

"And we trust each other?" John asked.

"You and Bobby have had your differences," Ellen answered with a wry smile. She was driving the Jeep, so she kept her eyes on the road as she talked. They were on the way to Bobby's place. It was almost dark, but they would reach the house soon. On the drive, she had tried to tell John everything she knew about the years he still could not recall. It wasn't much. John Winchester was a name every hunter knew, so Ellen heard stories over the years. She knew that for a few years John put aside his aggressive determination to work alone, and hunted with his son, Dean. She knew that Sam's girlfriend died in a fire around the same time John took himself out of the game to track the yellow-eyed demon. She knew that, during that year, John's sons had more than proven they could fill his shoes. But there was a great deal she didn't know, and John's questions betrayed his frustration with his lost memories.

John was in the passenger seat beside her, cleaning a gun as they talked. "You said we were friends," he pressed.

"That too," Ellen agreed. "You're both stubborn bastards, John." She almost added that Bobby was very protective of the boys; it wasn't hard to figure out that was why the two men clashed. But she caught herself in time. Perhaps it was better that John didn't remember that. "When you were in danger, he was the first person Dean and Sam turned to for help."

John nodded, laying the oily rag on the dash and beginning to reassemble the gun. "That says a lot."

Ellen turned into the road that would lead them to Bobby's place. "We're almost there. Do me one favour, John."

John loaded bullets into the magazine. "What favour?"

"Try not to kill Bobby. You're back from the dead. He's going to take a lot of convincing and I don't think he'll tell us anything about the boys until he's convinced you're not - "

"A demon?"

"Or a vampire, or a zombie, or lord-knows what else."

John slid the magazine into the gun and pointedly chambered a round. "I don't plan on killing anyone, Ellen. But I'm going to find my sons."

Ellen said a silent prayer.

The lights were on in Bobby's house, but the windows were so dirty it was hard to see inside. Ellen slowed the car as they came near the house. Though she couldn't see him, she was sure Bobby would be watching and she wanted to give him plenty of time to recognise her car. She parked next to an old camper van. It wasn't a vehicle she had seen here before but Ellen thought nothing of it: there was always a car or two around Bobby's.

She turned off the engine and pocketed her keys. "Ready?"

"I think it'll go better if you go in first," John suggested.

_Thanks for small mercies_, Ellen thought. She climbed out of the car and headed for Bobby's door. John followed, at a distance. Ellen knocked.

Bobby opened the door, so quickly she knew he had been watching her approach. "Hey, Ellen. I've been trying to call you."

She managed a grin. "You know how I feel about cell phones. Bobby, uh, we need to talk about..."

But Bobby was already looking past her. His eyes widened when he saw John.

Ellen had been unable to predict how this would go. First and foremost, Bobby Singer was a hunter, and people don't just come back from the dead...especially people who sold their souls to demons. Maybe Bobby would believe his eyes. Maybe he'd go for a weapon. Maybe he would assume that Ellen, too, was something to hunt.

He did none of those things. Bobby stared at John for a long moment. "I'll be damned."

John moved closer, into the light coming from the house. "Hello, Bobby."

Silently, Bobby stepped back from the door, inviting them inside.

Ellen narrowed her eyes suspiciously. This was much too easy. "Not even a question, Bobby?"

"I was expecting John," Bobby admitted. He shrugged. "I thought the guy who warned me was two planks short of a rain-barrel, but..."

"What guy?" John interrupted sharply.

"Come inside, John," Bobby evaded.

John walked past them both into the house. Ellen started to follow.

Bobby stopped her with a hand on her arm. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

"I'm good. What the hell is going on?"

"We'll explain inside."

_We?_ Ellen remembered the camper van. She had a split second to suspect, to decide which side she was on. "_John_!"

She heard a shot, deafeningly loud in the small room.

Bobby whirled, shouting, "No!"

He froze, John's gun inches from his face.

Bobby raised his hands, slowly, demonstrating that he was unarmed. "We're not the enemy, John. You came here for help, didn't you?"

Ellen stepped out of the doorway, letting the door swing closed behind her. She kept her hand near her own gun, but didn't draw it.

Instead, she spoke quietly, "John?" Nothing more, only his name. The next move was his, but Ellen would back his play. She hoped he understood her.

John pointed the gun at the ceiling. Ellen relaxed.

"Christ, John!" Bobby moved past him and only then did Ellen get a good look at the man on the ground. A fallen gun lay on the floor beside him. Blood stained his shirt and flowed down his right arm from the shoulder. There was a spray of blood across the books and bookshelf behind him. It looked like a flesh wound, though. He was already sitting up.

Bobby helped him. "You okay?"

"I'll live. Do you have a little ice?"

"Yeah." Bobby looked up at John. "Paranoid, much?" he demanded.

John moved toward them, the gun still in his hand. He looked down at the man he'd shot. "I know you!" he said.

***

#### November 1983

  


#### Lawrence, Kansas

John leaned over the pool table, sighted down his cue and sank the final ball, smooth as a fine whiskey. He straightened and looked for his opponent.

Tom scowled at the table, reaching into his coat for his wallet. "Double or nothing?" he suggested hopefully.

John shook his head. A few weeks earlier he would have accepted, and then doubled a third game to go home with a nice profit, but John found no pleasure in the game now. He came to the bar to drink and he played pool because it was easier than pretending to socialise. No one tried to talk to him when he had a cue in his hand. John took Tom's money with barely even a smile. He tucked most of the cash into his billfold and headed back to the bar.

The bartender looked up at John's approach. "What'll it be?"

"Whiskey, Kate. Double."

Kate poured the whiskey. "Are you driving tonight, Mr Winchester?" she asked with genuine concern in her voice.

John scowled at her. She knew the score. Everyone knew. He hated that the whole damn town seemed to know his business. "Just give me the damned drink, Kate." He pushed a ten dollar bill toward her.

She shrugged and took it, her red hair bouncing as she headed for the cash register and rang in the sale. She returned with his change. "I'm only worried..." she began, but her voice trailed off at John's dark look.

"I'll see him safely home," a baritone voice said.

John pivoted on his barstool to face the speaker. The first thing he noticed about the stranger was the man's height; even hunched over his beer, John could tell he was well over John's own six feet tall. He was a broad-shouldered African American, his dreadlocked hair pulled into a kind of spiky ponytail at the back of his head. He wore faded blue jeans and a short-sleeved t-shirt, with a sheepskin jacket hanging over his lap. He was a manual worker of some kind, John guessed. As their eyes met, the stranger raised his beer bottle to his lips. The gesture revealed a tattoo on his right arm, though the ink was barely visible against the ebony of his skin.

"Thanks," John said, "but I don't need help. Sergeant." The last was a guess, but John knew a Marine tattoo when he saw one.

The stranger smiled. "Sharp eyes." He offered his hand. "The name's Hunter."

John shook the offered hand automatically. The man had a strong grip. "John Winchester. That your first name or your last?"

"Last. David Hunter."

John nodded and knocked back his whiskey. He didn't want to talk. He turned back toward the bar and silently pushed the empty glass toward Kate. She gave him a look but refilled it.

John gazed into the amber liquid, seeing Mary's face reflected there. She was everywhere for him now. Enough whiskey dulled the pain, but it couldn't make him forget. There wasn't enough whiskey in Kansas to help John convince himself that he didn't see what he saw that night: Mary, on the ceiling, the fire bursting out of her body to engulf the room. Which was impossible, as everyone told him. He drained the glass and rose from the stool.

"Thanks, Kate." He headed for the door.

Outside the bar, the cold air hit him and John hesitated in the empty street. He wasn't ready to head back to Julie's place. It hurt too much to face them all: Julie and her husband with their sympathetic looks and careful avoidance of the painful truth; Dean, who stared at him with hollow eyes and seemed at peace only when he held his baby brother; and Sammy, who couldn't seem to stop crying as if he knew, somehow, that the world had ended for all of them. John couldn't face any of them.

"Winchester," Hunter called from behind him.

John buttoned his jacket. "I'm fine."

"No, you are not fine." Hunter moved into John's view. " People talk, brother. I heard you lost your wife."

John wondered who had been gossiping. Kate? Did she share tales of crazy John Winchester who thought something freaky burned his house down?

"What's it to you?" John growled.

"Nothing, but I know how you feel, man."

That was too much. "You have no idea what I feel!" He shoved Hunter out of his way.

Hunter grabbed John's arm. "Three years ago," he said, "I lost my wife and kids in a fire. I could never prove it, but I know it was arson. They were murdered."

John had clenched his fist ready to throw a punch, but his anger faded instantly. He lowered his arm. "I'm sorry." Maybe this stranger really did understand.

Hunter released his arm. "From what I heard, you have a boy at home."

John nodded. "Two."

"So, let me give you a ride home, man."

John was ready to argue, but right then he heard a squeal of tyres behind him. He whirled around to see a car career around the corner. The headlights blinded him, but he'd seen enough. The car was out of control. John started to move. The car veered away. The building across the street was covered with scaffolding for some repair work; the car hit one of the scaffolding poles with a deafening impact, ploughed right through it and knocked down a second before coming to a stop. The whole structure wobbled. It could collapse at any moment.

John started across the street. Whoever was in that car, he had to get them out before the scaffolding came down. "Call 911," he shouted back to Hunter.

Hunter grasped the back of John's coat. "John, wait! There is nothing you can do." He wrapped his arms around John's chest, holding him back.

John struggled against Hunter's hold, but the man was both bigger and stronger than he. "What the hell are you - "

The car exploded. A ball of yellow flame rushed toward them and the force of the blast blew John into Hunter's body. Intense heat rushed like napalm across his exposed skin. He heard the scaffolding come down with a deafening crash. John and Hunter fell together, rolling over in a heap, and ended with Hunter on top of John, shielding him from the worst of the blast. After, John was never certain whether that was intentional, or just the way they both fell.

Shielding his eyes from the bright flames (Mary, so like the flames around Mary that night), John climbed unsteadily to his feet. The street was filling with people from the bar. There were voices all around. Someone asked John if he was okay, but John brushed aside the question. He looked at the burning wreckage. He saw the shimmer of glass in shards all over the road and the twisted mess of the burning car crushed under fallen metal and timber. If Hunter hadn't stopped him, John would have been in the middle of that.

"John." Hunter laid a hand on John's arm again. "I'll take you home."

Home? Home was gone. He had no home.

John accepted the offer, following Hunter to his car. The car was an old Ford and smelled strongly of cigarettes. John gave Julie's address. She was Mary's closest friend, and offered John and the boys a place to stay after the fire. She was grieving for Mary herself, but she was good for Dean, at least. John heard sirens approaching and it occurred to him that he was a witness to the accident. He should stay and talk to the cops. But the thoughts were distant, and he let Hunter drive him away from the scene.

Outside Julie's house, John hesitated before getting out of the car. "Thanks," he said, not quite certain whether he meant for the ride or for saving his life.

"Anytime," Hunter answered. He turned his charcoal eyes to John. "Hey, man. If you will take some free advice from a stranger...look after your family, John. Take it from me, there's nothing more important."

John didn't need some stranger to tell him _that_. He thought again of Dean, who still wouldn't speak to anyone except Sammy. He thought of Sammy's incessant crying. He thought of Mary, who couldn't be buried because there hadn't been enough left of her body to even identify human remains, let alone bury them. She was just ashes, like the rest of John's life and hope.

He met Hunter's eyes and found only empathy and compassion reflected there. Hunter had said he'd lost his own family; John believed him. At least John still had his boys. He muttered a second thank you and climbed out of the car.

Julie and Dean were waiting for him in the doorway. Dean was half-hiding behind her, clutching her hand.

Julie gave John an apologetic look. "He wouldn't settle," she said by way of explanation.

John bent down to pick up his son. "It's okay," he told Julie, then, to Dean, "Hey, Champ. Shouldn't you be in bed?"

Dean hooked his arms around John's neck, but he didn't cuddle in as he used to. Instead he met John's eyes and nodded solemnly.

"So, who is looking after Sammy?" John asked Dean, hoping to provoke the boy into saying _something_.

Dean merely shrugged.

Behind them, John heard Hunter drive away. He hugged Dean close to him fiercely. If Hunter hadn't been there, Dean and Sammy might have been orphaned tonight.

The coincidence nagged at John. Mary. A stranger who lost his own family in a fire. A _similar_ fire? Could it be? And John's own close call. He turned to watch the car go and felt an impulse to run after Hunter, but it was too late, the Ford's tail-lights already vanishing around the corner.

John carried Dean into the house. _Take care of your family, John. There's nothing more important._ Hunter's words suddenly seemed sinister.

Something killed Mary. Something that might be after him, too. And his boys.

John was through waiting for the cops to find answers for him. Starting tomorrow, he was going to find them for himself.

***

#### April 2008

Bobby held the ice, wrapped in a clean cloth, to Hunter's wound. Hunter took it from him. "Thanks, I'll be fine." His blood turned the cloth pink as he held it to his arm. Hunter leaned against the doorway that led through to Bobby's "library".

"You're David Hunter," John said aloud. He recognised the man now: he'd lost the dreadlocks, but it was the same man who saved his life that night in Lawrence. Hunter had a marine tattoo on his arm. That was why he'd associated the name with Vietnam. But the memory raised more questions than it answered. He fought to keep the gun at his side. Yeah, John was twitchy. Paranoid. The man had been going for a weapon...or so John thought. And this man, Bobby Singer...Ellen vouched for him, said he was trustworthy. And yet John's instinct screamed that there was some secret here.

He watched Hunter holding the ice to his wound. That was odd, too. Ice might help with the pain but John's bullet went right through Hunter's arm. Why hadn't he asked for stitches, or at least a bandage?

"Are you somehow responsible for - " John began.

"John," Bobby interrupted sharply, getting to his feet, "you want to calm the fuck down and listen."

John rounded on him. "Don't tell me what I want to do!"

"Same old John. You selfish bastard."

"I'm - " John began hotly.

"Dean is _dying_!" Bobby bellowed.

John stopped. "What are you talking about?"

Bobby met his eyes. He was angry, but when he spoke his voice was even, careful. "Two days from now, Dean will be dead. Unless we can figure out how to save him. There ain't time for the long version, John. Sit down, shut the hell up, and listen."

***

"A year ago," Bobby began, "Sam was taken - abducted - by the yellow-eyed demon. Azazel." He took a sip from his hip flask and offered it to John, who took it. "I don't know everything that happened, but by the time Dean and I tracked them down, it was too late. Sam died."

John drank Bobby's whiskey and found his hand shaking. He looked at Ellen. "You said they were okay," he accused.

"Ellen doesn't know," Bobby said, "because Sam didn't stay dead. John, when Sam died Dean was...he was crazed. Couldn't handle it. I thought he was gonna eat his own gun, but he did something even more stupid."

John's stomach felt full of lead. "What did he do?" he asked.

"He summoned a demon and traded his soul for Sam's life."

"Oh, my God," Ellen whispered. One look at her stricken face convinced John she hadn't known any of this. That made two of them.

"Demon gave him a year to live," Bobby went on relentlessly. "His time's up tomorrow night."

John took another pull of whiskey and passed the flask back to Bobby. He turned away from them all, gazing out of the dusty window into the darkness. _Why, Dean? What could have driven you to do something this desperate?_

He got himself under control, and looked for Hunter. "Where do you fit into all this?"

Hunter stood against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. Blood was drying on his shirt, but if he was still in pain, it didn't show. "I will tell you what I can, but you must take much of this on faith. We have no time for detailed explanations or proof." He spoke flawless English, his accent more-or-less Mid-Western, but there was a subtle rhythm to his speech, that suggested English wasn't his first language.

_On faith. Yeah, that's gonna happen._ "Just talk," John ordered.

Hunter glanced at Bobby, then back to John. "I'm not a hunter, exactly. I used to be. What I do now is more...complicated. Do you remember the night we met?"

John nodded curtly. "Yes."

"The reason I was in that bar, the _sole_ reason, was to make sure you lived through that night. I did not know why you were important or what would come of your survival. Only that the future depended on you not dying as you were meant to."

John frowned. "You mean that car wreck?"

Hunter nodded. "It was supposed to kill you."

_Yeah, you saved my life. What does that have to do with my Dean?_ "According to Ellen, I _did_ die. Two years ago. I'm still findin' that hard to believe, but if it's true, did _you_ bring me back?"

Bobby interrupted. "It's true, John." He was looking at Hunter, a silent question that John couldn't read.

Hunter seemed to hesitate. "Raising the dead is far beyond my power," he said at last, but, yes, I arranged for it to happen." He met John's eyes unhappily. "I feel I owe you an apology. I had no right to interfere in your life like this."

The apology took John by surprise. He was sorry for giving John his life back? Most people would consider it a gift. John didn't know how to respond to the apology, so he ignored it. "How did you 'arrange' it? And why?"

Hunter shook his head. "That would take too long to explain, and anyway," his eyes twinkled as he flashed a quick smile, "you would not believe most of it without proof. I will tell you this: no one died for it, no one traded their soul for your life. That was your real question, wasn't it?"

It wasn't, but the assurance lifted some of the weight in John's stomach. Aside from Christ and Lazarus, every legend of true resurrection he knew of involved either human sacrifice or demonic deals. That Hunter's way _didn't_ involve those things (if he was telling the truth) raised more questions, but they would wait.

Hunter went on. "You asked why. That's another too-long explanation, but I will try to shorten it. I believe you can save Dean, or you know something that will save his life and his soul."

_If I knew something, do you think I'd still be in this fucking room? Jesus..._ "Why would you think that? Why do you care about Dean?"

Hunter moved away from the wall. He sat down on the edge of the table. "I have seen true visions most of my life. Most psychics see specific events: such as one person in danger, with no idea about the consequences of changing what they see. My visions are very different. _All_ I can see is the big picture, the large events that cannot be changed by one man. It took me many years to understand how to find the small things that lead up to the big events. That is the only way to change destiny: one life at a time, one moment of cusp at a time. Sometimes it means letting someone die. Sometimes it means saving someone."

"Spare me the philosophy lesson," John growled.

"It's not philosophy, John. This is my life! You have no idea. I spend all my energy seeking ways to save the future from the destiny I see. I never know if I'm doing the right thing until it's too late. If I try to interfere too much, I can make things spiral into far more confusion."

John narrowed his eyes. "I don't give a fuck. What does this have to do with my Dean? Or with me?"

Hunter looked at him steadily. "If Dean dies this week, if Dean goes to Hell, in twenty years so will the world. Literally."

There was silence, as all of them took in that pronouncement. John looked at the others. Ellen looked scared; she believed it. Bobby's expression was utterly impassive; John couldn't tell what was beneath that carefully neutral look.

John shook his head. "That's ridiculous."

"It's fact," Hunter insisted. "I don't know why Dean is the key. It may be he's destined to save someone important, or to kill something that will make the difference. Or it could be Dean himself who will save the world. I cannot see everything. I know only the two things I have told you: Dean must live, and something you can do, John, or something you know, is critical to making sure that happens."

Suddenly all three of them were looking to John. It was a look he knew: expectant. John looked at Hunter. "But I don't," he said honestly. "I don't know how to save him."

There was no way to break a deal with a demon. You could be careful about the terms you agreed to, maybe, if the demons would let you build in a loophole. But once you made a deal the demon held all the cards. How could Dean have done this?

Ellen came to John's side, laying a hand on his shoulder. He turned to her, meeting her eyes and finding strength there.

"John, I don't know about this destiny stuff, but maybe you _do_ know the answer. Or, you did...before."

John understood her at once. Of course she was right. If he knew something, it was in the years of memories he had lost. _Why? Why go to the unimaginable lengths of bringing me back from the dead, then steal the memories I need to save my boy?_

As John turned to him, Hunter's dark eyes went wide. "How bad is the memory loss?" he asked.

Either the man just read his mind, or he'd known that this would happen to John.

John stalked up to him. "You son of a bitch. You stop fucking with me or the next one won't be a flesh wound. Why take my memories? Why?"

Bobby started toward them. "John..."

"Stay where you are," John snapped without looking at Bobby. "Why should I trust you, either of you? Why should I believe _any_ of this?"

Hunter muttered something in a language John didn't recognise. From the tone, he guessed it was something obscene. When Hunter looked up, he was frowning. "You are right. You have no reason to trust me. If you believed that you died, the fact that you're standing here would be enough. But you don't remember that, do you?"

_Damn it!_ John's back was to the wall. He knew he was being manipulated but the only way he could see through this was to go along. He could leave, oh, yes, but he needed the information Bobby had: the whereabouts of his sons.

"John," Hunter said urgently, "what's the last thing you remember?"

John looked at Ellen. "I remember a hunt," he answered reluctantly. "I screwed up and got someone I love killed."

"How long ago was this?"

"1995."

Hunter swore again in that foreign language.

"That ain't helping, David," Bobby interrupted.

Hunter nodded. "You are right." He looked at John. "I knew you would have some memory loss, but this is too much. There may be a way...but that's dangerous. Too dangerous."

"What?"

"Let me ask you one more question first. When you think back to the last memory you have, what happens when you try to remember more?"

John shook his head. "I can't. I can't remember anything after Bill's death." John turned away from Hunter. "It's just gone." As he spoke it was there again. _Bill, possessed, trying to kill him. John wrenched himself away, reloading his gun even as he gasped for breath. He shot, and black smoke filled the air..._

And then nothing.

"It's a memory block. John, I may be able to fix it."

"How?" John demanded.

"I have some psychic ability. You've worked with psychics before, haven't you?"

John nodded, thinking of Missouri Moseley back in Lawrence. She could read minds, too, and he'd trusted her once.

"I can break the block in your memory, John, but you need to understand. It was put here to protect you. It's a dam, holding back memories you're better off not remembering."

"Fuck that!" Hunter's words sparked real anger in John. Who dared to decide what he was _better off_ without? "I need my memory back to save Dean," John insisted.

It was Ellen who stopped him. "John, think about this..." she warned.

"Why? What could be in my memory that's so bad it's worth my son's soul?"

Ellen backed off. "When you put it like that..." she shrugged.

John could tell there was something. He looked at Bobby. Bobby met his eyes, steady and inscrutable. "It's your funeral, John," he said.

No help there. John wasn't surprised. He turned to Hunter. "Alright. Do what you can."

***

To the rear of Bobby's house was a yard with cars in various states of junk and repair. In the half-light of dusk, the cars were hulking shapes and shadows. Hunter had suggested they should be outside for this. The scents of rust and old gasoline were familiar to John. For some reason it made him more comfortable. He _was_ nervous. John still didn't know if he should trust this man and he was about to let him play around inside his head. If he had any other way, he wouldn't do this...but he needed to know what was in those missing thirteen years.

John looked back over his shoulder to Hunter. Hunter showed no sign of pain from the bullet wound John had given him. It stopped bleeding unnaturally quickly, and now there was only the dried blood on his shirt to testify he had been wounded. John had an uneasy feeling that if he asked Hunter to show him, the skin beneath the shirt would be whole and unscarred.

"What are you really, Hunter?"

Most people would take offence at being called _what_. Hunter merely smiled. "Truthfully, I don't know any more. I started out human. I think I still am...but perhaps that's a matter of opinion."

"What does that mean?"

"I'll make you a deal, John. In three days this will all be over, one way or another. At that time, I promise you, I'll answer every question you have, as fully as I am able. Until then, why don't you just accept I'm one of the good guys and table the rest?"

"You ain't helping me trust you," John said. But he did see Hunter's point. Time was a factor. While he was distracted by irrelevancies, Dean was dying. He met Hunter's glittering eyes. "Alright. What do we do?"

"Think back to that last memory you have. I need to touch you to find the block and break it. It'll only take a moment. And brace yourself, John, because when this dam breaks, it's going to be like Niagara Falls. There's no way for me to do this gently."

"Okay." It took very little effort for John to recall that memory again. It was hard not to think about it. _I know who you are, John Winchester! I know about your boys!_

Hunter reached up with his wounded arm and cupped the side of John's face with one large hand. The gesture felt sexual, as if Hunter was going to kiss him, but John had no time to feel uncomfortable or to pull away.

_Ellen, her eyes red-rimmed and still crying, looked up at him with hatred in her eyes. "Get out, John. Just fucking go."_

_Sammy bent over Dean's head, breathing air into his brother's lungs even as he cried. John was performing chest compressions. "Come on, Dean. Don't you dare die. Come on!"_

_Hot blood sprayed into John's face, blinding him._

_John sat on the hood of the Impala, watching the football game from a distance. Sammy was playing quarterback. He was pretty good. If only he'd put the same effort into training with his brother..._

_The scent of cheap perfume overlaid the scent of stale sweat. John kissed her anyway, shoving her hard against the wall of the alley. They parted and she smiled through smeared lipstick. "I have a room..." _

_John smiled, his hand closing around the handle of the machete concealed beneath his coat. "Sorry, darlin'. I'm not into necrophilia." Her eyes widened and she had time to take one more breath before John decapitated her with one powerful blow._

_Sammy, yelled into John's face, furious. "I'm going, Dad. This time you can't stop me."_

_"If you walk out that door, you selfish piece of shit, you stay gone. If you walk out on your family now, I don't want you back. Ever!"_

_The door slammed behind Sammy, leaving John with a white-faced Dean. "Go, son. Just go."_

_He walked into the motel room he'd expected to find empty. Dean was on the bed, naked, with two women. He struggled to disentangle himself from them as John stood there. "When you're done, son," John said dryly, "we do have a job to finish."_

_Dean laughed; he sounded drunk. "Yeah, sure. Just give me five minutes."_

_Dean. Oh, Dean, what am I gonna do with you? "Make it ten, Dean," John said. "You're gonna need a shower."_

_Driving his truck down a lonely road, John stopped to pick up a woman who was hitchhiking. "Take me home," she purred, and he knew what she was._

_Invisible claws raked his cheek. Sammy shouted a warning and even through closed eyes the light was painfully bright. Someone - John thought it was Sam - helped him up. Later, in the dark street, Dean said, "You can't come with us, Dad."_

_"You left! Your brother and I, we needed you!"_

_The adrenaline high made John grin as he turned the lever, flooding the tunnel with holy water. Meg stood on the other side of the flood, black-eyed and very pissed. "Holy water, John," she taunted. "Very cute." It was a threat, a promise of pain, but for now Meg was trapped._

_Invisible hands pinned him to the wall, dragged him upward off the ground. He fought against the force lifting him, but it was too strong. Now he was the one trapped._

_Trapped in his own body, while a demon used John's own voice to taunt his son. "Funny. But that's all part of your MO, isn't it? Masks all that nasty pain. Masks the truth! They don't need you! Not like you need them."_

_Dean was bleeding. Dean was begging him for help._

_"Sammy! You shoot me in the heart, son! Shoot me!"_

_A hospital room, white walls, and Sammy was yelling at him again. "That's my point! Dean is dying, and you have a plan!"_

_Hatred, more bitter than anything John had ever felt, filled him as he gazed down the barrel of the Colt into those yellow eyes. He had waited twenty three years for this moment, but as much as he longed to pull the trigger, John didn't do it. "I wanna make a deal," he said._

_He laid the Colt on the table between them. He was genuinely afraid of what he was about to do, but he was satisfied that this was right. Dean would finish what he, John, began. Somehow, he kept the fear out of his voice as he met those yellow eyes again. "Okay. I'm ready."_

_The demon smiled triumphantly. "You do know, don't you, that you just sold me your precious Sammy?"_

_John's last, defiant whisper: "That's what you think, you son of a bitch."_

_Dying is easy. What comes after is anything but._

_It was pain. Unimaginable pain, so much it should have killed him instantly, but he was already dead. He would have screamed until his throat bled, but he had no body, no mouth with which to scream his agony. Then he did, and that was so much worse._

John roared, a long, wordless scream in the silence of the yard. He was on his knees, though he didn't remember falling. He scrabbled at the ground, his hands seeking something to hold. The relentless assault of memory went on and on.

_Oh, God, make it stop. Make it stop!_

_Bright light that should have hurt his eyes but didn't. His eyes didn't hurt, but everything else did. He raised his hands before his face and found the flesh burned, black and torn. Skin cracked as he flexed his fingers and he saw his own bones. Then there came a voice. He thought it was a female voice. "Sleep, child. When you wake your body and mind will be whole again."_

Someone's hand gentled John's back. "John," Ellen said soothingly. "John."

John looked at his hands, certain the flesh would be blackened and split, blood and broken flesh with bone showing through. But his hands were whole.

He raised one hand in a _stop_ gesture. "I'm okay," he said hoarsely, and was amazed to find he had a voice. "Just give me a moment."

John concentrated on breathing. Just breathing in and out. He was breathing. He was alive.

After an endless time, John rose slowly to his feet. He looked for Hunter, who merely nodded, once. He looked at Ellen. She seemed scared, or worried. John thought he understood why. He reached for Ellen, drawing her into his arms. Ellen hugged him back fiercely.

John spoke quietly, his mouth against her ear. "We'll talk about last night, Ellen, but now's not the time. I am truly sorry, for everything."

Ellen drew away from him. "Now's not the time," she agreed.

Satisfied, he turned to Bobby. "Where are they, Bobby?"

Bobby shook his head unhappily. "John, I truly don't know. Dean called me this morning. He told me they were going someplace out of cell range. He didn't tell me where. They've been staying in the midwest lately, but...that's all I know."

Shit. "Think, Bobby. Did Dean say _anything_ else? Anything."

Bobby frowned. "He said there was a place in the mountains."

John almost smiled. The mountains. He remembered...he hadn't thought Dean so sentimental. "It's Colorado. Daniel owned a cabin high in the Rockies where we spent a few summers when the boys were little."

Bobby shook his head, as if thinking he should have known. "Elkins. I forgot he trained you."

John waved it away. "What demon did Dean summon to make his deal?"

Bobby hesitated. "He made the deal at a crossroads. The boys tried to find the name of the demon who holds his contract, but - "

"You don't know. Fine. Last question: do they still have the Colt? I know all the bullets are gone, but do they have the gun?"

Bobby answered, "That's a story and a half."

"Yes or no, Bobby."

"No. But there's more."

"You can tell me en route. That's if you're coming with me."

Bobby met his eyes. "You got a plan, John?"

"I'm going to Colorado to save my son. Are you with me?"

Bobby actually smiled. "I'm with you. I love the boy, too."

"I'm with you," Ellen said, before he could ask.

Hunter nodded. "If you'll have me."


	5. Chapter 5

Jo balanced the tray on one hand and handed out drinks with the other. "Here you go. White wine..." she placed the glass carefully in front of the woman in the red dress, "double Jack on the rocks," he was a middle-aged man in a dirty sweater, "lite beer..." for the second woman at the table, "and Irish whiskey." She smiled at the last man, a younger man in jeans and leather.

Jack-on-the-rocks leered at her. "Thanks, darlin'." He tucked something into her pocket, squeezing her ass as he did so. "Have one on me, why don't you?"

She moved away from his grabby paws. "I will. Thanks." She tossed her long hair back and put a teasing wiggle in her walk as she headed back to the bar. He could look, but she wasn't going to touch. Not even if he'd slipped her a c-note. She was betting it was a dollar.

Mick took the tray from her. "He bothering you, Jo-chile?"

She shrugged. "He's a pig, but I can handle it. You should have seen the bar I grew up in. Jerks like that are nothing."

"Good for you, gal." Mick laughed. "Take a break, honey. It's gonna get busy later."

"Okay," Jo answered agreeably. She leaded into the back room, untied her apron and tossed it over a chair, then picked up her bag. She walked on through to the back door. She preferred to eat in the alley outside: despite the garbage, it smelled better than the back room of the bar. Jo strongly suspected several rats had died back there.

She drew a deep breath of the night air and unwrapped her sandwich. Mick's saloon was one of fifty she'd found work in since she started hunting. It was easy work. Bar owners like Mick operated with tight margins, so were always willing to hire someone like Jo, who was happy to be paid in cash and could be trusted not to raid the register or take the hand off a grabby customer.

The job fitted in well with hunting. A lot of people would spill their secrets to a pretty girl who served them drinks. Her days were free for research in libraries or for recon, and if she had a salt-and-burn she could go after the bar closed. She liked Mick: he was an honest scoundrel. She would be sorry to leave, but it was time to move on.

Jo heard footsteps and tensed, looking around. A woman was coming toward her. It was dark in the alley and the light was behind the woman, but Jo could make out high-heeled shoes, a short skirt and long, straight hair dyed some weird colour, maybe blue. Jo reached behind her and opened the door a crack, just in case, but she didn't expect trouble.

"Got a light?" the woman asked. Her features were still in shadow, but Jo could see the unlit cigarette dangling from her lips.

"I don't smoke," Jo answered.

"Not what I asked, cutie."

Jo shrugged, then remembered she did have a little book of matches with her. She nodded, searching through her bag. "I might have something..." she said. Her hand closed on the fold-over packet and she drew it out. There were three matches left in there. She tore one out, struck it, and held it out for the woman.

"Thanks, darlin'." The woman leaned forward to light her cigarette. In the flare of the match, Jo saw her face. The woman was younger than Jo had guessed from her voice, her face pale and heavily made up. Her makeup was Goth-style: dark red lips, black panda-eyes, silver piercings in her eyebrow and nose. She looked up, meeting Jo's eyes as she blew smoke out through her nose.

Her eyes were utterly black.

Jo gasped in fright. She backed off, groping for the small bottle of holy water she always carried.

The demon was too fast for her. She grabbed Jo's forearm with one hand and her bag with the other. She twisted Jo's arm behind her back. Jo cried out in pain but kicked back, and bent over, attempting to throw the demon off. Her boot connected with the demon-woman's knee. The demon gave no sign of having felt it. She shoved Jo into the wall, grabbed her hair and slammed her head into the bricks.

Jo felt pain. She felt herself begin to fall, but she was unconscious before she hit the ground.

***

Ellen looked around at each of the three men. David Hunter was frowning, his forehead creased beneath his dirty red bandana. Bobby looked worried, his eyes on John. John's expression was a familiar one of implacable determination.

It seemed the four of them had just become an army.

Hunter spoke first. "We need to be prepared for the demons to oppose us. It's a long way to Colorado and I'm afraid that by coming here I might have given too much away."

John's frown deepened. "We travel together. Strength in numbers. Demons, we can handle." He looked at the others. "Who has the best car? We need to drive fast, and non-stop."

Ellen spoke up. "My Jeep is fast. Reliable, too."

"It might be best," Hunter agreed. "They know my van."

John nodded. "Fine, we take the Jeep. We'll take turns driving so we can keep going all night. Bobby."

"John," Bobby acknowledged.

"Demons are your department. If we're expecting an attack, what do we need?"

"Devil's trap to seal the Jeep," Bobby answered gruffly. "Load her up with holy water - "

"Get started," John ordered. "Hunter, do you have weapons in your van?"

"Not much of an arsenal by your standards," Hunter answered. "I have a few things that might be useful."

"Load what you have into Ellen's Jeep. We'll need to talk before we leave."

Bobby stepped forward then. "John, there are some things you need to know."

"You'll tell me on the road."

The two men left John and Ellen alone. She walked up to him slowly. In the fading light, his eyes were dark, shadowed hollows.

In just a few minutes, John had changed. Ellen couldn't remember ever seeing him like this, so completely in command, never doubting they would follow his orders.

He clasped her shoulder firmly. "Ellen, are you sure you want in on this?"

"I'm in," she answered firmly. _Just try and stop me!_ "John, the demons murdered my husband and my son. I have as much reason as you to be in this fight."

He shook his head. "This isn't about them. I'm going to save Dean."

Ellen reached for his hand. "I know how much you're willing to sacrifice for Dean. But you said it yourself, this morning. This is a war now. We all need to be in it." She squeezed his hand, briefly. "I'm with you, John."

He drew away from her. "I have things to do."

It hurt, though Ellen tried not to show it. "Sure. I'll go clean out the Jeep."

***

John headed into the house. He saw Bobby collecting the tools of the demon hunter's trade but walked past him, looking for Hunter. Hunter was outside at his camper van. The van was clearly meant to be lived in: the rear floor was padded with a foam mattress, pillows and blankets. Above the rear doors hung a shining lamp. There were storage spaces everywhere, but John couldn't see anything more dangerous than clothing. Hunter was good at hiding his true purpose.

As John approached, Hunter was stripping off his shirt.

"Hey," John called.

Hunter turned toward him. "John."

"How's the arm?" John asked.

Hunter silently stretched out his arm under the light. There was a round indentation in the flesh where the bullet penetrated, but the skin was healed. It looked like the wound was weeks old.

"How the hell...?" John stared at the wound, then looked up to meet Hunter's eyes. It just wasn't possible. No human healed so quickly.

Hunter said, his tone very careful, "It's the side effect of a curse."

"What kind of curse makes you heal like that?"

"It is a long story, John." Hunter reached for a fresh shirt and slipped it on. "I'm hard to hurt, and I heal quickly. It's useful, but it's not worth the price, believe me."

There was a story there, but John didn't press for it.

As he buttoned the shirt, Hunter asked, "Did you really come to talk about my healing?"

Point taken. "No. I want to hear everything you know about the deal Dean made."

Hunter finished buttoning the shirt. "Of course." He was wearing an amulet, John noticed. It was a tarnished copper plate etched with mystical symbols, riveted to a circle of rawhide and threaded onto a leather thong. It looked old.

"Bobby knows more than I do, I'm certain," Hunter began.

John nodded. "I'll get to Bobby. Right now I'm asking _you_."

***

"That's all of the holy water." Hunter hefted the box of bottles easily, balancing it against the side of the Jeep while he waited for Ellen to clear a space. She took the box from him and turned to load it into the trunk. She noticed he'd changed his shirt.

She fitted the box in, shifting a shotgun out of the way. "Hey, Hunter."

"David," he corrected.

"Whatever," Ellen said dismissively. "Something's bothering me."

"What's that?" he asked with a friendly smile.

"Well, 'David Hunter' is obviously an alias," Ellen told him. "So, why call attention to it by messaging Jo this morning?"

He leaned back against the open trunk. "Who is Jo?"

Ellen reached up to close the trunk. "My daughter. John and I asked her to check you out. I know she must have tripped some alarm, but - "

"Ellen, I have messaged no one. You had this girl looking for me online?"

Ellen suddenly felt cold. "Yes."

"She's in danger," David said urgently. "Call her, tell her to get out of town, wherever she is."

Ellen didn't question it. She slammed the trunk closed and ran for the house. She didn't own a cell phone. Since they started building GPS chips into all of them, she thought they were a bad idea. Big Brother was watching closely enough. She would have to use Bobby's phone.

John and Bobby were sorting through books when Ellen burst in.

"Ellen, what is it?" Bobby asked.

"Phone. I need to call Jo."

Bobby didn't argue. He simply gestured, pointing out the phone.

Ellen snatched it up and dialled Jo's cell quickly.

John asked, "Ellen, what's wrong?"

"Tell him," Ellen snapped to David, tapping her fingers on the table as she waited for Jo to answer.

David said quietly, "Ellen asked her daughter to look me up on the net. She may have been noticed."

"By who?" John demanded.

"Answer the damned phone!" Ellen muttered. And, finally, she heard:

"Hi, this is Jo."

_Oh, thank God!_ "Jo, sweetheart, it's me."

"Oh! Mom." Jo sounded surprised. "I didn't think I'd hear from you so quickly."

"Honey, where are you?" Ellen asked.

"I'm at work. In a bar, I mean, not hunting. Mom, you sound worried."

She _was_ worried. "Jo, listen. You're in danger. You have to get out of town tonight."

"Why? What's wrong?"

"I can't explain, but demons could be looking for you."

"Demons! Mom, are you in trouble? Where are you? You're not calling from home."

She answered without thinking. "I'm with Bobby. We're heading for Colorado - "

"Ellen!" John shouted. "No!" He leapt toward Ellen, but it was too late. The words were out. John spoke urgently, "Ellen, the more she knows, the more vulnerable she is."

Shit. He was right. But Ellen couldn't take it back now. And whether John liked it or not, she wanted Jo with them. She would be safe with them. So she compromised, looking directly at John as she spoke. "Why don't you meet us in Denver? Can you do that?"

"Mom, please. What's going on? Are you _hunting_?"

"I'm looking for answers. Honey, I have to go. Will you come to Denver?"

There was a pause, then Jo answered. "Okay. I can fly out in the morning."

Ellen let out her breath. "Thank you. I'll call you tomorrow, then. And be _careful_. I love you, Jo."

"Mom, you're scaring me."

"Good. Be careful."

***

Not even an hour before Ellen called, Jo had been woken by light shining in her eyes. Bright light that hurt even through her closed lids. The light was hot, too, as if she were too close to a fire, but it wasn't firelight. It must be a heat lamp. Jo had a bitch of a headache, and the light wasn't helping one bit. She was also tied to a chair, her wrists and ankles bound with rope.

Jo squinted against the light, trying to see. She could make out two bright spotlights pointed at her. Beyond them she could see nothing: they were too bright. She looked down and realised she was naked. She hadn't noticed because it was so warm in here: the heat from those two lights. No...she wasn't completely naked: they had left her bra, panties and for some reason her boots in place. Nothing else. The chair she was tied to was solid wood. The floor beneath her feet was wood, old and dusty.

This was bad.

"About time you woke up, sleepyhead," a woman's voice said.

Jo shook her head, hoping to cover her eyes with her hair and get some relief from the painful light. The gesture sent pain spearing through Jo's head, and everything she saw suddenly had a red halo. She felt sick to her stomach.

"Where am I?" Jo asked. She didn't really care what the answer was; it was just something to say while she tried to figure out what was happening to her. She remembered the demon in the alley behind Mick's bar. It wasn't hard to make the connection to what was happening to her now. But why? What did the demon woman want?

"Hunters," the woman's voice said derisively. "Always so sure of themselves. Always so easy to fool."

The voice was moving. Jo heard the sound of high heels on the wooden floor.

"Tell me," the demon said, "what's a cute little schoolgirl like you doing in a dangerous game like this?"

"Go and fuck yourself," Jo retorted, stung. She tugged at the ropes around her wrists, testing the strength of them. There was a little slack in the rope. If she could manoeuvre the knot within reach, then she might have a chance.

Her captor was a demon, but as far as Jo could tell, only one of them. Demon meant exorcism. Jo had been working on memorising the Latin ritual but she strained to recall the opening words.

"Anatomically impossible, my sweet, at least with this body," the demon said smoothly.

"What do you want?" Jo asked. The heat from the spotlights was becoming uncomfortable. Sweat beaded on her forehead, on her chest, running between her breasts in ticklish rivulets. She began to turn her right wrist, slowly, letting sweat soak into the rope. It might help by acting as a lubricant. Just as long as the demon didn't see what she was doing.

The demon appeared between the two spotlights. It was the woman from the alley. Her hair was a deep shade of purple, with highlights of violent pink beneath the bright lights. She wore the same Goth make up, the same hooker-chic outfit.

"I want," she announced, "a great many things, cutie. And you are going to tell me everything I want to know." She stood in front of Jo's chair and bent down, laying her hands on Jo's forearms, her face so close that all Jo could see was her soulless black eyes. "If you're smart, my sweet, you already know that you're going to talk. The only choices you have are how much you want to suffer first, and whether or not I let you live when we're done."

Jo looked into those black eyes. "You really love to hear yourself talk, don't you?"

The demon slapped her, hard.

Jo's head exploded with pain and she felt her stomach rebel. _Oh, God, I'm going to throw up!_ Bile filled her throat and she retched. It was all she could do to turn her head to one side as she vomited, so most of it didn't end up on her body. The side of her face stung from the slap, but that was a small pain compared to the pounding inside her skull. Jo had a concussion, a bad one. She knew the symptoms, and knew she needed medical attention.

"Who is David Hunter?" the demon demanded.

Jo answered truthfully. "I don't know."

Everything she saw was blurred and red-tinged. There was a knife in the demon's hand. As the demon raised it in front of Jo's eyes, Jo recognised the knife as her own. Her father's switchblade, the handle engraved with his initials, the blade made from pure iron.

"Wrong answer," the demon said. Slowly, she laid the blade against Jo's cheek, just beneath her eye.

Jo had only a moment to decide what to do. She was sure she could hold out for a while, but she also knew that no one can resist torture forever. She remembered being trapped in that awful basement in Philadelphia, but then she had known that rescue would come: the Winchester boys were looking for her and she'd been utterly certain they would save her. Now she was alone, with no backup. No one knew where she was. No one but Mick would even realise she was missing. She remembered when she was sixteen, one of the hunters who frequented the Roadhouse had shown her his hand which was missing two fingers. He'd told her, _If you're tortured, little lady, the answer is to crack as soon as possible. Not too fast, 'cause they'll think you're lying. But soon. Everyone cracks in the end, and you've gotta make it stop while you're still in with a chance of getting out alive._

Jo didn't know much about David Hunter. What little she knew was harmless information: the demon could have it. Her dilemma lay in who asked her to look into the name. She couldn't say anything that would lead the demons to her mom.

Jo spoke, the panic in her voice not even a little fake. "I don't know him, I swear! I only heard the name today!" She felt the knife break her skin, felt the blood begin to flow. "Please! I'm telling you the truth."

The demon drew the knife slowly down Jo's cheek, cutting her open from eye to jaw. Jo moaned with pain. She stared at the demon with hatred, knowing that she would be scarred for life.

The demon straightened up, a joyous smile on her face. She flipped the knife from one hand to the other. "You can do better than that, cutie. Who gave you the name?"

"A hunter. A friend from the Roadhouse. He gave me the name and told me the man he was looking for is an ex-marine. That's all I know."

"You're lying!"

She slashed with the knife and Jo screamed again as a long cut opened across her breasts. Blood welled from the cut, pouring down her skin to soak into her white bra.

"Who gave you the name? Who is looking for Hunter?"

Jo pressed her lips together, stubbornly silent. She would _not_ let this demon bitch go after Ellen. She turned her wrist inside the rope. Was it a little looser?

The demon leaned close again, this time laying the bloody knife against Jo's upper arm. The point of the blade slid into flesh and muscle.

Jo gritted her teeth to keep from screaming and seized her chance. She twisted her wrist within the bindings. She grabbed the demon's elbow. "_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_..."

The demon wrenched away from her grasp and plunged the knife into Jo's stomach. Jo felt it go in, felt the demon twist the blade. Odd that it didn't hurt so much. Blood gushed down her skin, hot and thick.

That was when Jo heard the music: the opening notes of _Mad World_. At first, she had no idea where it was coming from; then she remembered it was the ringtone on her cellphone.

The demon stood over her, Jo's blood on her hands. "Fine. We'll try this another way." The demon knelt on the ground before Jo and sliced quickly through the ropes at Jo's ankles and wrists. Jo knew this was her last chance. She knew she should move, fight, run, _anything_. But the pain held her to the chair. She clutched at the stomach wound and felt fresh blood pump over her fingers.

Black smoke billowed around her. The demon's body fell to the ground with a thud and the smoke whirled around Jo. She understood, then, but it was too late. The smoke was everywhere, choking into her lungs, stinging her eyes. She screamed, fighting it desperately, but how do you fight smoke?

The demon wearing Jo's body stood and reached for Jo's cell phone. It answered the call, using Jo's voice. "Hi, this is Jo... Oh, Mom. I didn't think I'd hear from you so quickly." She ran a hand across Jo's stomach, gathering Jo's blood onto her fingers as the wounds closed.

She smiled, licking blood from her fingers as she listened to Ellen spill everything she wanted to know.


	6. Chapter 6

Ellen and John were in the back seat of the Jeep. She was sleeping. John was not. At some point during the night Ellen had moved sleepily into his arms; now John was holding her while she slept, her head pillowed on his chest.

Bobby was driving; David riding shotgun beside him. Outside, the sky had been slowly growing lighter for the past hour; now the first rays of a scarlet sun were reflected in the rear-view mirror.

Dawn meant Dean's time was ticking away. This was the last day of Dean's life...

Thoughts of what they needed to do were turning over and over in John's mind. He was very afraid that he wasn't going to be able to do this. Dean sold his soul; whatever demon he sold it to held all the cards. If it would stand still and negotiate, John was confident he could save Dean. The trouble was the demon didn't have to stand still for anything. It didn't even need to show up in person to claim a soul due to it...though John had an instinct that in this case, it might.

What John needed was leverage. The Colt, key to the gateway of Hell, would have been sufficient, with or without its bullets, but according to Bobby the Colt was gone. John needed something else to trade. If he couldn't find something to tempt this unknown demon to appear, John had no way to save his son.

That simply wasn't an option.

It did occur to John that he could offer himself - his own soul - in trade. He had done it once. Two things stopped him.

John now remembered Hell, and David hadn't been wrong when he said John was better off without those memories. Every horrific detail was sharp in his mind: torture and despair and the true faces of the demons. He was not anxious to return. But, more than that, John suspected his soul would be a poor trade for Dean's. David believed that Dean was the key to keeping the demons in Hell where they belonged. If he was right, then the opposite was also true: Dean's death was the key to the demons' victory. Would this unknown demon trade that for any other soul? It seemed unlikely.

John saw the lights of a gas station and diner ahead and was just about to suggest they should make a refuelling stop when Bobby slowed the Jeep and turned toward the gas station. It was an isolated place and there was no sign of anyone attending the pumps. Bobby stopped at a self-service pump and got out to fill the tank.

Ellen stirred and John looked down at her. "Hey, sleepyhead," he whispered.

Ellen sat up, rubbing her neck. "Where are we?"

David answered her. "A ways past North Platte. We're making good time."

Bobby opened the door. "Sign says pay in the diner. What do you say we stop for breakfast while we're here?"

"Could get take-out," John suggested. He was hungry, but time was crowding him. They didn't have long to find the boys.

Bobby gave him an exasperated look. "John, we're all tired. We should take a break."

John nodded, giving in. "Okay."

Bobby climbed in behind the wheel, drove across to the diner's parking lot and pocketed the Jeep's keys. They all climbed out. Bobby started toward the diner but John called him back.

"Wait." John opened the back of the truck. He was already carrying a gun, but he wanted holy water, too. "No one goes without protection," John insisted, handing Bobby a bottle.

Bobby took it. "Paranoid, John, even for you." It wasn't a question.

"Maybe so," John agreed. "Take a gun, Bobby."

Ellen gave John a look like she agreed with Bobby. She pulled out her hip flask, opened it, poured the remaining whiskey onto the asphalt and held it out for John to fill it with holy water. Like John, she was already armed.

David simply accepted a bottle and a gun from John, making no comment.

They walked into the diner together. Bobby headed to the counter to pay for the gas. John selected a table far enough from the counter and kitchen that they would be able to talk. The diner was well-kept, decorated in rustic style: a lot of polished wood and a stone-tiled floor. The tables were set in booths, affording some privacy. John waited for Ellen to take the window seat, and sat down beside her where he had a clear view of the diner. David, too, chose a seat that gave him a strategic view of the room and its exits.

A few minutes later they had coffee, with food on the way, and John was confident they and three others were the only people here. There was a young waitress, an older woman John guessed was her mother, who was the cook, and another man. No danger that John could see...which didn't mean it wasn't there.

"What's your plan, John?" Bobby asked.

John stopped watching the waitress and looked at Bobby.

"I'll go along, whatever it is," Bobby said. "But I want to know what you think you're gonna do."

John sipped coffee. He was reluctant to explain, but he recognised that reluctance as cowardice. He didn't want to admit weakness. John finished the coffee and started talking. He explained some of what he had been thinking and what he needed: some way to make the demon appear. "At this point, I'm open for suggestions."

"We've got everything we need to summon a demon," Bobby pointed out.

"Yeah, but which one?" John asked him. "You don't know who holds Dean's contract. None of us do."

Bobby hesitated, avoiding John's eyes. "I've got a suggestion." Bobby's voice had dropped low, as if he didn't want Ellen or David to hear. "It's a long shot, and you ain't gonna like it. But she's probably our best chance."

"She?" John repeated.

"There's a demon, one of those who came through the gate a year ago. She's been...working with Sam."

John could not hide his reaction. Sam. _His_ Sammy working with some demon. Damn, he'd taught his boys better than that! What the hell was Sammy thinking? Especially now, with Dean... No. Nothing good could come of this.

Finally, John said slowly, "What. Demon?"

"Called herself Ruby, but I'm pretty damned sure of her real name. I can - "

John interrupted because the waitress was approaching with a laden tray, "Hold that thought, Bobby."

Bobby glanced back, saw the waitress, and nodded.

As she laid down plates of food, the implications of what Bobby had said crashed down on John. He stood, abruptly, muttered something about taking a leak and headed for the men's room and slammed the door behind him.

He did want to use the men's room, but that wasn't why he left the table. He needed a moment to get himself under control. John took a piss, washed his hands, and splashed cold water on his face.

He would _never_ have accepted Sam co-operating with some demon. Not even before. But now John knew what demons really were. He had been in Hell. Moreover, John was acutely aware of how much danger Sam could be in, depending on just what he had done for this demon.

Was John about to save one son only to lose the other?

He slammed his fist into the tiled wall. No. _No!_ He would not let this happen!

John swallowed, watching himself in the mirror above the sink. When he thought he had his poker face straight, he went to the door.

Something flew at him, a blur of movement. Before John could react it struck him in the chest, throwing him back into the bathroom. John fell on his butt and slid backward across the tiles. He flung out a hand to stop his momentum and looked up.

What he saw made no sense. It was the older woman from the kitchen, her eyes black coals. She was possessed. But John also saw the demon inside her, as if she had two faces: four eyes, two mouths. One image overlaid on the other. John hesitated for no more than half a second, caught by that weird sight. But the hesitation cost him. The demon gestured and John's body rose from the floor, flew across the room. His shoulders hit the mirror and it shattered. He fell, one knee painfully striking the sink. Broken glass rained down on him.

John grabbed for his holy water and rolled onto his back. The bottle was the kind designed for athletes: you squeeze the bottle and the liquid comes out in a jet. John flipped the seal open with his thumb and as the demon leaned over him, he was ready. He sprayed the water right into her face.

The demon screamed and recoiled, clawing at her smoking flesh. John scrambled to his feet. He ran at her, grabbed her by the throat and let his weight and momentum carry them both to the ground, with him on top of her. He sprayed more holy water over her chest. She writhed beneath him and John held her down firmly. The words of the exorcism spilled from his lips and suddenly she screamed again, a torrent of black smoke pouring from her mouth.

The whole encounter had taken less than a minute.

The woman stared up at him, her blouse soaked with water. She looked terrified. John released her, getting to his feet. He had no time to explain, no time to be gentle. He checked the bottle in his hand: it was still half-full.

"Stay here," he ordered, and strode to the door.

He found his friends in the middle of battle. David was struggling with a black-eyed man. Ellen was trying to help him. Bobby had a demon trapped under a chair, and was halfway through the exorcism. He seemed to have it under control, so John went to help the others. David was on his back, the demon's hand around his neck, choking him. Before John reached them, Ellen had doused it in holy water. John added his strength to hers, dragging the thing off David. He was already chanting in Latin as David sat up, coughing.

Ellen joined John in the Latin chant and he found himself surprised, though he shouldn't have been. When David joined his voice with theirs, the demon convulsed, the familiar black smoke flooding out of the body they held.

John turned away instantly to see if Bobby needed help. He didn't. It was all over. Bobby was helping the young waitress up and behind them, John saw the other woman stumbling out of the bathroom. The two women looked at each other, and the girl ran to her mom, hugging her. John watched them together. He hadn't even noticed the girl until that moment. Hadn't even registered that she was human. He had seen only the demon. What was wrong with him?

Ellen crouched beside the fallen man. "You'll be okay. Let me help you," she offered gently.

It was the older woman who seemed to recover first. "Who are you people? What did you do to us?" she demanded, still holding her daughter close.

The man rejected Ellen's offer of help with a gesture. "I'm calling the cops," he blustered.

John glanced at him with contempt. "Ellen, explain it to them. Tell them whatever you think makes sense. Bobby, I need you. David, get some salt down. They'll need it even if we're leaving."

Ellen had grabbed the man's arm as he headed for the phone. "We just saved your asses, you damned fool. Sit down and let us take care of your family."

John shot her a quick grin and left her to it. There weren't many men could stand up to Ellen Harvelle. No one was going to call the cops. He saw David head out of the door to the Jeep. He turned to Bobby. "Still think I'm paranoid? You should be asking if we're paranoid _enough_." It was a cheap shot, but John couldn't resist the I-told-you-so.

Bobby ignored the jibe. "What's troubling you, John?"

John sat down on the edge of a table. Speaking quietly, so the others would not hear, John told Bobby what happened to him in the men's room and how he had seen the demons. "Was there something...different about these demons?" he asked. "What did you see, Bobby?"

On demons, John trusted Bobby Singer more than he trusted anyone. It was Bobby who sought him out after Bill's death and taught him that hunting demons with guns is about as smart as hunting bear with a pea-shooter. Oh, John had known the tools of the trade before: salt, symbols, exorcism, but when under attack his instinct, his training, was always to go for the gun. It was a mistake that got Bill killed. It was a mistake John never made again. What Bobby Singer didn't know about demons probably wasn't worth knowing. After a couple of months under his tutelage, John understood just how badly he - and Bill as well - had screwed up. They were out of their league on that hunt, clueless as a pair of amateurs.

Bobby hesitated, looking back at the others. "I saw what I always see. A woman possessed by a demon." He shook his head, his gaze returning to John. "John, I didn't ask before, as it's none of my affair, but I need to ask now. How much do you remember? Of the time since you died, I mean?"

"Too much," John answered curtly. "I was in Hell. I'm guessin' you know that."

"I know it. And your boys know it. Why'd you think Dean's so screwed in the head?" There was a bitterness in Bobby's voice John hadn't heard before.

John bit back an angry retort. He did what he did because he believed it was the only way to keep both of his sons alive. He knew now that he failed in that: his decision led to Sam's death and was about to lead to Dean's.

"The demons we're dealing with now," Bobby went on, "are the ones that came out of the devil's gate. They're old, powerful. Some of them have tricks I've never seen before, nor even heard of. Scary sons of bitches. But they're still demons."

"What's your point?" John frowned, not sure he was following.

"Maybe it's not _them_ that's different. Maybe it's you. You walked through Hell, John, and came out the other side. My guess is that left a mark on you. What you saw back there was a reality most of us can't see."

John thought that over. While any explanation that didn't boil down to _You're seeing things, John_ was welcome, that one wasn't exactly a comfort. Could Bobby be right? Was John carrying more than just the memory of Hell? What did that even mean? John wasn't a demon. Ellen and Bobby both tested him, and even if they hadn't, John figured he'd know if he were something other than human. But what if he'd lost some part of himself in the pit? Did that make a difference?

He was about to answer Bobby when the lights in the diner flickered. John jumped up at once. More demons?

Ellen stood, immediately alert. On the other side of the diner, David looked up from his task. He'd been laying down salt, but he wasn't done.

The doors of the diner blasted open and a tornado-like wind whooshed in, carrying dust and leaves and crumpled newspaper into the diner. The wind flapped tablecloths and spilled salt and pepper. The young waitress screamed.

"Is there a store room here? A pantry you can hide in?" Ellen asked sharply.

The older woman pointed toward the rear of the building.

"Show me," Ellen snapped. She hurried the civilians away.

John moved toward the open doors. The wind had destroyed the line of salt David had lain down there. As he reached to close the door, John saw someone outside, stalking toward the diner. As before, he had the odd feeling of seeing double: a young woman in tight leather pants, her long blonde hair blowing in the wind. Overlaying her attractive human face, John saw something far more terrible. Something he recognised. Memories of Hell: agony and terror rose up in his mind. Fear fuelled his anger and he reached for the last of his holy water.

"John, wait!" Bobby urged.

John glanced his way, shocked that Bobby of all people would try to stop him. Bobby's eyes flickered to the new demon, then back to John. John understood. He turned back to the demon, feeling a familiar smile twist his features.

So, this was Ruby.

***

"Tell me about the girl it's possessing," John said to Bobby. He looked down at Ruby where she sat, temporarily powerless inside a devil's trap. She was being sullenly silent, which suited John just fine. She would talk when he was ready.

They were behind the gas station, in a walled yard that couldn't be seen from the road. John had no idea what Ellen had said to get the family's co-operation; possibly Ruby's over-dramatic entrance had helped. Four hunters against one demon: she put up a fight, and did some expensive damage to the diner, but here she was.

Bobby understood what John was asking. "She's been in that body a year. The girl's dead."

John allowed himself a smile. "Good," he said aloud, so Ruby would hear. "Then I don't need to hold back." He walked slowly around the circumference of the devil's trap, aware of Ruby's eyes following him. To Bobby he said, "Leave her to me. I'll join you when we're done."

Bobby nodded and began to turn away.

Ruby called after him. "Wait! Just tell me where they are! You owe me."

John grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head around sharply. "You don't need to know, sweetheart. Where you're going, it won't matter."

"I'm on your side!" she protested. To Bobby, who was still walking away, she yelled, "Tell him!"

Bobby stopped walking then. He turned around. John shook his head, telling Bobby without words to just go. Bobby took the hint and left without another word.

"She's coming for Sam!" Ruby shouted after Bobby. John saw the other hunter's shoulders tense, but he kept moving until he was out of sight. Good man.

John reached beneath his jacket for the stake he'd concealed at his back. It was a long spike of Palo Santo wood. He still held Ruby's hair in his fist. He used it to wrench her head backward, forcing her to arch her back, exposing the front of her body. He drove the stake into her abdomen, just beneath her heart. Ruby screamed in agony. John smiled, satisfied.

Palo Santo was pretty rare. Centuries ago some South American shaman discovered that the wood of this certain tree, if prepared the right way, had properties anathema to demons. The holy wood didn't kill them, but even a small touch of it caused them pain. It weakened them, too: a little like dead man's blood to a vampire. Useful stuff.

With one hand holding the stake firmly, John held her down. With his free hand, he searched her, ignoring her cries of pain. She writhed around the wood. It would hold her forever if need be. He found the carved hilt of the knife Bobby had mentioned and took the knife from her. He stood, releasing his hold on the stake. He looked down at her, testing the point of the blade against his thumb. She wasn't screaming now, just making small whimpering pain-sounds. It took a lot to make a demon show pain. Ruby made no attempt to remove the stake from her body.

"Who," John asked, turning her knife over in his hands, "is coming for Sam Winchester?"

"I'm not..." Ruby gasped, "telling you...anything."

There was very little blood around the stake, John noted dispassionately. She was bleeding, but not nearly as much as such a wound usually produced. It supported Bobby's statement that the girl was dead already.

"You claim you want to help Sam," John said. "If that's true, sweetheart, think about this. In a very short time, I'm gonna put you on an expressway back to Hell. Might want to share your intel with someone who can use it."

"Go to Hell!"

"Been there, done that," John answered dryly. "Who is coming for Sam?"

Ruby stilled suddenly and looked up at him. John could see something of what might have taken in his son: those blue eyes still held some of the innocence of the girl she inhabited: the girl she killed. But the demon within was ugly. She stared up at him, her eyes searching. "Who _are_ you?" she demanded.

She was getting used to the pain. Her question surprised John, a little. Demons usually knew who he was. He'd done his best to be a pain in the ass to their kind. John answered her, but not with his name. "I'm someone you can't manipulate. I'm someone who will see through every little deception you think you can try. I'm someone who knows exactly what you are, and what you used to be." He unscrewed the cap from a new bottle of holy water. "And, sweetheart, I'm the man who's gonna make you wish you were in Hell if you don't answer my question right the fuck now. Who. Is. Coming. For. Sam?"

She spat the word like venom. "Lilith."

"Good girl. Keep talking."

Ruby still lay on her back, pinned down by the Palo Santo stake in her middle. Her hand moved toward the stake, but she didn't touch it. "She knows he'll be vulnerable when Dean dies. That's when she'll strike. I'm trying to _help_, damn you!"

John sat down on the dusty floor beside the devil's trap. "Why would you want to help Sammy? What could you _possibly_ have to gain?"

She merely looked at him, her eyes angry.

_Demons. You never know when to give in, do you?_ John poured holy water into his palm and raised his hand above her face, letting the water drip down.

Ruby's skin smoked where the holy water touched her. She tried to move away from the dripping water and the movement made her scream. She grabbed for the stake in her body. Her fingers only brushed the wood and she screamed again. In his strange double vision John saw the demon's flesh blacken and peel back from her fingers, though her human hands showed no sign of injury. _Oh, yeah. That had to hurt._

"What do you want with my Sam?" John asked again.

Ruby's eyes widened. John had dropped _my Sam_ in there deliberately, to see if she would notice. But if she made the logic leap to John Winchester, she didn't say it. Instead she made a visible effort to keep still and looked up, meeting John's eyes. "Take this fucking thing out of me and I'll tell you anything you want."

John reached out, grasped the stake and ground it deeper into her body. When she opened her mouth to scream, he upended the bottle of holy water over her face, spilling it into her eyes, over her nose and into her mouth. When the bottle was empty he dropped it and covered her mouth with his hand, forcing her to swallow the water she hadn't had time to spit out. She struggled against him weakly, her cries of pain muffled by his hand. He let it go on for a long time. When John finally released her, Ruby curled onto her side in a ball around the stake, around her pain. She was gasping weakly, tears rolling down her cheeks.

John had no pity for demons and especially not for _this_ demon. He got down there with her and grasped her chin with one hand, forcing her to look at him. "This isn't a negotiation, bitch. You can't trick me into making a deal with you. Now, what do you want with Sam Winchester?"

She looked at him, her eyes now black as night, as if searching his face for something. John let her see him. He let her see that he had no mercy in him, that he could keep this up for as long as he had to. He let her see her death in his eyes.

"Just tell me who you are," Ruby begged. "No deals, I swear. Just tell me."

There was an implied agreement in there no matter what she said. Not all demon deals involved selling a soul. If a person freely made _any_ agreement with a demon, anything involving an exchange of value, the demon gained power over that person. Nevertheless, John accepted the compromise.

"I'm their father," he told her. Again, he didn't give his name. Names, too, sometimes held power.

She shook her head. "You're a liar."

"Suit yourself," John shrugged. He sat up, reaching for a fresh bottle. "Talk," he ordered. If she didn't start singing soon, John was going to bless the nearest swimming pool and drown the bitch in it.

Perhaps she picked up on his thought, because she answered. "Sam was supposed to lead Azazel's army. When Azazel got himself killed, Sam turned his back on us. He let Lilith take over. Now she's going to kill him. I'm just trying to keep him alive. That's all, I swear."

No it wasn't all. _Sam turned his back on us._ Good for Sammy!

Ruby's words made things clear to John for the first time. Hunter's prophecy about Dean: this was the key to it. It wasn't anything Dean was destined to _do_ that was important; it was what Dean would _be_ to Sam. John could not influence Sam; Sam didn't trust him enough for that. The thought took John back to the hospital room where Dean lay dying, to the decision he'd made to offer Azazel a deal. He had known then that only Dean could save Sam.

But this demonic bitch didn't care about that. She just wanted Sam to fulfil what she thought was his destiny.

John looked down at Ruby. "There's more. Why did you come here, to us? Why now?"

"Because I can't find Sam. He's done something to hide from me."

John was surprised. "You expected _Bobby_ to tell you where Sam is?"

"Only shot I had."

John believed that. But there was still a piece missing. There was a question he hadn't asked and needed to, John thought. Then he remembered why Bobby mentioned Ruby to him in the first place. "Do you know who holds Dean's contract?"

Ruby's voice was strained. "Yes, but - "

"Who?"

"I can't say."

John reached again for the holy water and saw her eyes widen in fear.

There was genuine panic in Ruby's voice when she said, "Please, it's the truth. I can't say his name. No demon can. We can't tell!"

John stopped.

"You're talking about a demon?"

"Of course it's a demon. What, do you think anyone else collects souls?"

_Holy shit. It can't be that easy...can it?_ His heart suddenly beating fast, John said carefully, "You can't say his name. Because his name summons him?"

Ruby nodded, her lips pressed tight together as if she couldn't even speak to confirm his guess. Maybe she couldn't.

John smiled grimly. That answered a number of questions. He looked down at Ruby, considering for a moment, before he took the Palo Santo stake and pulled it out of her.

Ruby yelled as it slid from her flesh, but pressed her hands over the wound, holding the flesh closed as it healed. She breathed slowly and deliberately. "I'm done. Send me back, you bastard."

John pushed her knife through his belt. "No. There's still something you haven't told me."

"Screw you!"

"I know you're holding something back, sweetheart." John wiped the stake on his shirt. "Do you really want to start over?" He raised the stake. He thought she would make him force her to talk, but he was wrong.

Ruby sat up, still trapped inside the circle, hugging herself. She gazed at him resentfully. "Alright! I made a deal with Sam."

John's hand closed over the knife in his belt. "You did what?"

"Not for his soul, idiot. What good would his soul do me? _I_ made the deal. You moron, don't you know what he is?"

***

Ruby never meant to do it. It never occurred to her that she _could_.

It happened in Cicero.

Everything had gone perfectly to plan until that moment. She made contact in Lincoln, saved Sam's life and high-tailed it out of there fast. She found him again in Cicero, and knew she had him interested. He let her sit down and make her pitch, at least. She'd expected him to know about his mother. When it turned out he didn't, she changed her strategy, telling him to check it out and call her.

Damn if it didn't work like a charm. Sam called, and she was glad to show up.

That was when it all went wrong.

"So, what's your deal?" Sam asked her. "You show up wherever I am. You know all about me. You know all about my mom."

"I already told you," Ruby answered. "I'm..."

Sam interrupted. "Oh, right, right. Yeah. Just a hunter." His voice was heavy with scepticism. "Just some hunter who happens to know more about my own family than I do. Just tell me who you are."

She started to say, "Sam, it..."

He interrupted her again. "Just...tell me who you are."

She shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

Sam came close to her, yelling into her face. "Just tell me who you are!"

There was force behind his words, real power. Ruby struggled to maintain her composure. She'd known he had power, but this...this was compulsion.

She had no choice but to reveal herself to him.

It scared her, but she kept calm. She was still in control of this conversation. _He_ called _her_. She had the power.

It worked, for a while. She got to tell him what she knew - which, really, wasn't much at all - and told him again that she was there to help. She'd always known it would be a tough sell. She didn't like the way he waved that holy water around. She'd felt his power once; if he tried to exorcise her she knew she wouldn't be able to resist it.

"Why would you want to help me?" Sam demanded.

Ruby shrugged. "I have my reasons. Not all demons are the same, Sam. Not all of us want the same thing. Me? I want to help you from time to time. That's all. And if you let me, there's something in it for you."

He still didn't believe her. "What could you possibly..."

"I can help you save your brother," Ruby said with a confident smile.

Sam stared at her. "I let you walk out of here; you help me save Dean. That's the deal?"

Was he really that naive? Ruby shrugged. "It'll take time. Can't do it all at once. But, yeah, I can help you save him."

Sam nodded curtly, and put the holy water away.

Ruby didn't realise until it was too late that it was she who had been naïve. She sealed her own fate with that agreement. She knew what Sam was; she hadn't understood what it meant. She was a demon, but she'd proposed the deal to _him_. He named the price. And damn if she wasn't dumb enough to take the deal.

Lucky she didn't have a soul left to trade. Luckier still that Sam didn't yet understand what he had done.

***

John stared at Ruby. If the bitch was lying, he was about to make a huge mistake. He looked into her eyes. He didn't think she was lying.

He'd been wrong before.

He had less than a day to save Dean's soul.

John got to his feet and offered Ruby his hand. "Sweetheart, you just saved yourself a one-way ticket to Hell. Get up. You're coming with us."


	7. Chapter 7

Sam cried out, sitting up in bed abruptly before he fully realised he was awake. His heart was pounding and he breathed hard, as if he was running for his life. He ran both hands through his hair and scrubbed at his eyes.

He was in bed. It was just a dream.

Sam blinked and recognised the old cabin. Automatically, he glanced over to the other bed. It was empty.

Where was Dean?

The terror of the nightmare was still with him, but it vanished under the onslaught of a far greater fear. Where was Dean? Was he...was he..._gone_? Did Dean slip away in the night, under some delusion that he was making this easier for Sam?

Sam shoved his blankets aside and hastily pulled on jeans and boots. He grabbed his shirt and didn't notice it was inside out as he buttoned it. He dashed to the door. "Dean!" he called.

Dean looked up, his eyes wide with surprise. He was sitting on the cabin steps, fully dressed and wearing his favourite leather jacket. If it were anyone but Dean, Sam would have thought he'd been enjoying the view.

The view from the cabin _was_ magnificent: they overlooked a lake so deep and still it was a perfect mirror reflecting the Rockies beyond. There were red-tinged clouds hiding the highest peaks: the last remnants of what must have been a beautiful dawn.

Sam forced a smile. "Dude, are you watching the sunrise?" he teased.

Dean stood. "Your moaning was keeping me awake. More nightmares?"

Sam shrugged. "Yeah. I guess."

"Midgets or clowns?"

"Neither, but I don't really remember." Sam frowned, struggling to recall the dream, but it was gone. Fragments were all he could remember: pain and smoke, his father's voice and a gut-wrenching terror that had wakened him. Nothing that made sense...but dreams so rarely do make sense. "Are _you_ okay?" he asked Dean.

"I ain't heard any Hell hounds, if that's what you mean."

Dean's casual words were like a knife in Sam's heart. He felt the blood drain from his face. "Crap, Dean!"

Dean came up the steps toward him. "It's time we talk about it, Sammy." He squeezed Sam's shoulder as he passed. It was their father's gesture; Sam wondered if Dean realised that.

Sam didn't want to have this conversation. He didn't want to say goodbye to Dean. He couldn't bear knowing that, despite everything, Dean was going to Hell. But he knew Dean was right. Reluctantly, he followed Dean into the cabin.

Dean wanted breakfast first. Neither of the brothers was much of a cook, but between them they managed to fry burgers and heat up tinned potatoes and spaghetti. Dean ate like he was starving; Sam could barely manage a mouthful.

Dean, his mouth full, asked "Are you gonna eat that?"

Sam shook his head and Dean took the plate from him.

Dean chased breakfast with whiskey. Sam didn't have the heart to give him shit for that, so instead he complained that Dean failed to buy bacon. Sam boiled water to make coffee and finally, started the conversation he'd been trying to avoid for a year.

"Dean, we can still..."

"No!" Dean interrupted emphatically. He swigged whiskey from the bottle.

Sam wasn't fooled. He knew how scared Dean was. It was there in every movement of his body, in the way he couldn't quite meet Sam's eyes, in his too-forced cheer.

"Why not?" Sam asked, though he already knew the answer.

"In the first place, it won't work." Dean offered Sam the whiskey bottle; Sam waved it away. Dean shrugged. "I can't be the first to sell my soul and regret it."

Sam leaned forward. "_Do_ you regret it, Dean?" he asked hopefully. Maybe there was still a chance...

But Dean answered bluntly. "Not enough to risk you dyin'."

That, or variations on that theme, was Dean's stock response. Sam was sick of it. Oh, he understood it. He knew, perhaps more than Dean realised, that the only thing Dean feared more than Hell and all it entailed was ending up back where they were a year ago: with Sam dead and Dean alone. That was how this was supposed to end if they tried to break Dean's deal. Or, more likely, Sam would die and Dean would have to keep his part of the deal anyway. But what if it didn't work out that way? What if there was a chance?

"What makes you think," Sam demanded angrily, "that I can live without you any better than you managed without me?"

Dean met Sam's eyes then, his gaze steady. "I know you will, Sam, because you did before. Four years, remember?"

Sam got to his feet and stalked away from Dean, his boots thumping on the wooden floor. "That was different, Dean!"

"How?" Dean asked obtusely.

"Well, for starters I didn't have half the demons of Hell trying to kill me!" Sam yelled it at the top of his voice.

Dean recoiled. He actually physically backed off, raising his hands as if Sam had a gun on him.

It calmed Sam down. "Oh, God. Dean, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Hey," Dean said. He was still watching Sam warily. "We survived this long, dude. You're gonna be okay."

Sam merely shrugged, because any answer he made would be a lie.

"Sam. Look at me, man."

Sam did.

"I want you to promise me you ain't gonna do anything stupid."

Sam snorted. "Stupid? You mean like make a deal of my own? I won't do that."

"I know you won't. But that ain't all you're thinkin', Sam. I mean it. No opening that gate in Wyoming. No...I dunno. No playin' with puzzle boxes."

Despite himself, Sam smiled. "That's just a movie, Dean."

"You know what I'm talking about," Dean insisted, with no trace of a smile. He was utterly serious.

"I...Dean, please." It was the only loophole the demon left them, and Dean was taking it away from Sam. Sam _could_ lie: say "I promise" with his fingers crossed like a kid.

"Promise me!" Dean urged. "I know how you feel. I do. But I don't want you trying anything that'll let more demons out. It's bad enough already. Promise me, Sam."

_I'm not going to get the chance, anyway._ Sam nodded. "Alright. I promise. No gates, no puzzle boxes."

Sam moved to the window and gazed out over the picturesque landscape. It didn't matter. Sam would storm the gates of Hell for Dean's sake, but he didn't believe that was an option any more. Sam didn't believe he would live long enough to try.

Lilith was looking for him.

So far, they had escaped her three times, and each time purely by luck. The protections Sam built around the cabin meant they were safe as long as he remained inside. No demon could find him here. The protections wouldn't help Dean: his deal overrode the usual rules and the demon he owed could find him anywhere. But Sam was safe.

He was safe until Dean left him.

Then, Sam was going after Lilith himself.

He was tired of running, tired of leaving bodies behind him. He couldn't hole up and pray for rescue: that just wasn't Sam. So he was going to take the fight to her. Sam had no illusions he could best such a powerful demon. He would face her and die...but maybe he could take her with him.

Without Dean, he had nothing left to lose.

***

Ruby was surprisingly co-operative when John released her from the devil's trap. She didn't fight him or argue with his orders. John didn't believe he had broken her so easily. Taking no chances, he kept Ruby's demon-killing knife at her throat, holding her against his body as they walked to the Jeep where his friends waited.

They watched him approach: Bobby looked wary, Ellen worried. David he couldn't read yet: his expression was carefully blank, but John noticed David's eyes followed Ruby, not him.

"Bobby, I want a devil's trap on the roof of the Jeep," John announced as he reached them.

"You sure you want to do this, John?" Bobby asked. His look said it wasn't so much a question as a request: _don't do this, John._

"Do I _want_ to? No. But I'm doing it. Ruby here..." John pressed the knife into her skin, just enough for her to feel it, "...is going to be _very_ co-operative."

Bobby's eyes narrowed, but he shrugged. "Okay." He opened the rear door of the Jeep and reached up to the roof.

"I can be more help to you if - " Ruby began to protest.

John silenced her with the knife. "Shut up. I'll tell you when you can be useful." He pushed the point of the blade into her neck, drawing a small bead of blood. "If you make trouble, sweetheart, I won't bother with exorcism. I'll just kill you. Understand?"

She hissed angrily, "Yes!"

"Good girl." John shoved her toward the Jeep. "Get in."

As Bobby climbed out of the car, Ruby got in and sat down. She looked at John, her expression pure hatred. He returned her look steadily. She would kill him, or worse, if he gave her the chance, but for now, he was the one in control. He looked at the devil's trap above her head. Bobby had placed a strip of tape on the roof of the Jeep and drawn the magical symbol over it. It meant they could easily break and re-seal the symbol. Nice work.

"You've dealt with her before," David said suddenly, "haven't you, John?"

"Why do you say that?" John asked sharply. David was uncomfortably intuitive...or perhaps it wasn't just a good guess. The man was a psychic; had he read John's mind?

"I know the look," David said with a smile. He met John's eyes seriously. "It's your decision, John, but are you sure your judgement is good on this?"

"I'll use whatever tools I must to save my son," John answered. He turned to Ellen, prepared for more argument.

Ellen simply shrugged. "I'm driving. Let's go."

John took the back seat beside the demon, with Bobby on his other side. If they couldn't handle Ruby between the two of them, no one could. David took his place as shotgun with Ellen driving.

They were running short of time. They needed to visit Denver first, where they would meet with Jo before going on to the mountains. John thought it an unnecessary delay, but he couldn't part Ellen from her daughter. There would be time.

David turned around to face him from the front seat as Ellen fired up the engine.

"The demons back there..." David began.

John nodded. "You warned me before they would try to stop us." He watched Ellen turn onto the road. She put her foot down, hard. John turned his attention back to David. "You think they'll try again?"

"It's inevitable. We have a deadline. All they need to do is slow us down."

John nodded grimly. He'd already thought of that.

"They only found you because you stopped," Ruby said.

John turned to her. "What do you mean?"

"Demons lie, John!" Ellen snapped, her eyes on the road.

"As if you'd know!" Ruby retorted.

"Quiet!" John ordered, meaning both of them. To Ruby, he added, "Don't talk to them. Only to me. Explain."

She gave him a hate-filled look, but she did answer. "_I_ could find you, because I can find Bobby. But they can't. They don't know where you're going so they can only catch up with you when you stop somewhere."

"That's something," Bobby commented.

"She lies," David said firmly.

"I'm not lying!" Ruby declared.

David ignored her, addressing John. "Demons aren't omniscient and about the three who attacked us back there, she's right. But they were small fry, John. Some of them can find us, even on the move."

John got the point. "Still, if they could catch us on the road, they would have done it before. Denver is going to be our danger point. Once we keep the rendezvous with Jo we can drive non-stop until we reach the boys."

"Is it really necessary to stop for Jo?" David suggested.

"Yes!" Ellen answered sharply.

John agreed. "If Jo is in danger, we're all partly responsible." He watched the landscape outside the car, considering the problem. "Is there anyone in Denver we can go to? Hunters? Allies?"

"No one I know," Bobby said.

"Ellen?"

"Not since we lost Pascale."

"Then it'll have to be a motel. We get a room and hole up for a few hours. We've got protections. It should work."

"What about her?" Bobby nodded toward Ruby.

"Leave her to me," John answered.

Bobby gave him a very eloquent look. "I sure hope you know what you're doing."

_So do I, Bobby. So do I._

***

#### Denver, Colorado

Ellen caught sight of Jo through the crowd and waved with relief. Jo was looking around her; she hadn't spotted Ellen yet. She looked good. Jo was wearing tight jeans and a white top that Ellen hadn't seen before: it had long, loose sleeves and was very low-cut at the neckline so that the lacy edge of her bra was visible. She was wearing a pendant: a piece of smoky quartz on a thong. That seemed out of place. Then Ellen noticed Jo wasn't carrying any baggage. Not even a purse.

Jo saw Ellen then, and smiled. She pushed her way through the crowd. Ellen moved toward her and they met in the middle of the airport concourse. Jo threw her arms around Ellen and clung to her.

Ellen held her daughter close. _You're safe. Thank God you're safe._ A hundred awful possibilities that haunted Ellen during the long drive made her hug Jo fiercely.

Jo pulled away. "Mom, are you okay? I've been so scared you were in danger."

"I'm fine, honey." Ellen kept one arm around Jo as she turned to Bobby. He was waiting patiently, apparently a little embarrassed by their open affection.

Jo smiled at him. "Hi, Uncle Bobby. Is one of you going to tell me what's going on?"

"When we get to the motel," Bobby answered her. He added, "It'll be quicker to show you."

"Sure. But everyone's okay, aren't they? I mean, Dean and Sam?"

"Why them, honey?" Ellen began to guide them toward the exit.

"Well, that weird IM I got mentioned John. So I assumed this has something to do with them."

"We haven't spoken to the boys," Bobby said. "You need to pick up your bags, Jo?"

She shook her head. "No. I left everything when Mom called and just got on a plane. She made it sound urgent."

There was, Ellen thought, a story there Jo wasn't telling. But she couldn't question her in the middle of such a crowd. The three of them walked in silence toward where Ellen had left the Jeep.

Once out of the airport, as they worked their way through rows of cars, Ellen asked Jo what happened to her. "Or, did something happen? After I called, I mean."

Jo looked unhappy. "You were right. There was a demon after me."

Ellen felt cold suddenly.

"What happened, Jo?" Bobby prompted.

Jo hung her head. "I had some holy water in my bag. I threw it at the demon and...and I ran." She looked truly miserable. "Some hunter, huh?"

"You did the right thing," Ellen assured her. She pointed to the next line of cars. "It's just over there."

"Your mom's right," Bobby agreed. "Jo, don't ever try to fight a demon on your own. Nor try for an exorcism unless you're prepared. Until you've got a lot more experience under your belt, run is exactly what you should do. Run. Unless you can't."

She smiled weakly. "Sam Winchester isn't much older than I am..."

"And their daddy trained those boys way too young," Bobby growled. "It ain't age, girl. It's experience."

"I was so scared," Jo confessed, "I...I guess I panicked. I headed straight for the airport without even going back for my stuff."

"That may have saved your life, sweetheart," Ellen said. She unlocked the Jeep.

Jo reached for the door but didn't open it. She stopped, frowning. "Mom, what is this? Why...?"

Ellen saw Bobby move up behind Jo, his expression darkening. He was reaching into his coat for the flask of holy water he always carried.

_No. No, not my Jo!_

"What's wrong, Jo?" Bobby asked her. His voice gave nothing away.

She looked confused. "I...I can't..."

She couldn't open the door. Because Bobby and John had drawn all kinds of protective symbols on the Jeep.

Bobby grabbed her from behind, pouring holy water down her front. Jo snarled, twisting in his hold, striking out even as smoke rose from her flesh everywhere the water touched her. Bobby avoided her blow but she was on him, clawing at his eyes.

"Jo!" Ellen shouted. But her brain and her body were ahead of her mouth. Ellen was inside the Jeep, reaching across into the back, shoving the door open. "Bobby!" she yelled.

Bobby was holding onto Jo's wrists, keeping her away from him. She'd drawn blood just beneath his eye. He muttered something in Latin and she screamed. With what looked like a superhuman effort, Bobby thrust Jo backward into the rear of the Jeep. Into the centre of the devil's trap he had drawn to hold Ruby.

She tried to attack him again and found herself trapped. "You son of a bitch!" she raged.

Ellen hung on to the steering wheel of the Jeep, listening to the demon in her daughter's body. She felt weak and helpless, so terribly helpless. Hot tears stung her eyes. She hadn't known. She was Jo's mother and she hadn't realised the person hugging her and smiling at her wasn't even her daughter.

Bobby's hand on her shoulder steadied her. "You okay, Ellen?"

She laughed shakily. "No. Jesus, no. I'm not okay."

Bobby looked grim. "This one is your decision, Ellen. I can do it now, or..."

"Or what?" Ellen demanded, but as she asked the question she realised what Bobby was suggesting. Or, rather, what Bobby was carefully _not_ suggesting.

Bobby wanted to take Jo back to the motel. To John. He meant that John could torture her for information, as he had Ruby. Ellen didn't know what John did to Ruby: none of them watched it. But she had _heard_ the interrogation. Could she bear to listen to her daughter scream like that?

It wasn't her daughter.

Ellen looked up at Bobby hopefully. "Is she... Is Jo okay?"

"There's no way to know, Ellen. The demon can't have been in there for long, so she _could_ be fine." Bobby shook his head. "You need to decide, Ellen."

Ellen looked back over her shoulder to the demon. "No," she shuddered. "This has to be John's decision, not mine." She slid the key into the ignition. "Ride in back, Bobby. Keep her quiet for me...please?"

He nodded. "You got it."

"If you hurt my daughter, you bitch," Ellen said aloud, "I swear to God, I'll..."

The demon laughed. "You'll what? What will you do, mommy? What _can_ you do?"

Ellen had no answer.

***

"Do you want to talk about it?" David offered. He was sitting on one of the motel room beds, idly flicking through the television channels.

John was at the window, turning Ruby's knife over in his hands as he watched, anxiously, for Ellen's return. "Talk about what?"

David jerked his head in Ruby's direction. "Whatever's between you two."

John turned away from the window to look at David. "I don't know you," he said bluntly. "Or trust you."

David nodded as if to say this wasn't news to him. "That's fair. Tell me anyway."

John looked at Ruby. She was sitting on a chair inside a ring of salt. She sat there silent, her arms crossed over her chest. She hadn't spoken a word since John put her there. Her co-operation, reluctant as it was, suggested she told him the truth that morning.

"We met," John admitted curtly. "In Hell."

"And?" David prompted.

"And that's all you need to know," John said. He heard the rumble of the Jeep's engine outside and went to the window, pushing the knife through his belt at he walked. He drew back the curtain, careful not to disturb the salt. "They're back."

Ellen parked close to the room, but oddly only Bobby got out of the Jeep. He saw John watching and beckoned. John frowned, then turned to David. "Watch her," he ordered.

"John, we've got a problem," Bobby said without preamble.

John looked past him to Ellen, then to Jo. Once glance at Jo answered all of his questions. He could see it in her, as clearly as he saw Ruby. Oh, shit.

"She's possessed."

"Yeah," Bobby agreed.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Let's take care of it!" John was moving as he spoke, hurrying around the Jeep to Ellen's side. He opened the door for her.

Ellen started to climb out of the Jeep, then stumbled and almost fell into John's arms. He caught her, realising it wasn't accidental. She was shaking and he wondered what it had taken for her to drive here with Jo in the back...like this.

John held her, letting her get herself under control. "Ellen, I'm sorry," he whispered against her cheek. He stroked her hair, looking past her to Jo. To the demon. It stared back at him with those awful black eyes.

Ellen drew back from him. "Help her, John," she pleaded.

John couldn't help thinking of Bill, who had been possessed at the end. Bill, who John killed. He looked around them. The road past the motel was busy: too many potential witnesses.

"We'd better get her inside," John suggested. "Ellen, let David know what's happening and break the salt line so we can get her in the room."

Ellen looked at her daughter, swallowed hard and looked back at John.

"We'll take care of her, Ellen," he promised.

"I know you will." Ellen nodded and headed to the room.

John turned to Bobby. He was still carrying Ruby's knife but this was Jo. Killing her wasn't an option. That meant he couldn't use the knife as a threat, either: with demons, you never make a threat you're not willing to follow through.

"You got holy water?"

Bobby nodded. "Plenty."

"Be ready." John opened the rear door of the Jeep. John reached above Jo's head and peeled the tape away from the roof, breaking the devil's trap. He was ready for the demon to try something, but she moved faster than he could have believed. John had no time to react.

Her hands closed around his neck. John staggered back, grabbing her wrists, trying to loosen her crushing grip. He fell backward deliberately, pulling her with him, dragging her out of the Jeep and giving Bobby a clear shot. John looked up into her face, seeing not Jo, but the demon within her. It was laughing, triumphant, but he didn't understand why.

John felt a needle of pain rip through his head and for a moment he saw Elkins' cabin in his mind: a summer day with the boys, still children, running down toward the blue lake. John choked out one word: "Bobby!"

"I know who you are, John Winchester!" the demon snarled.

John knew those words. Blind hatred overtook him and he groped for Ruby's knife.

Jo screamed. Black smoke poured from her mouth, surrounding John for a moment. Jo's scream cut off abruptly and all of the smoke was gone.

Jo collapsed on top of John. He felt something warm and wet between their bodies.

"Bobby, get Ellen!" John rolled from beneath the girl's body and gathered her into his arms. There was blood soaking through her white shirt and his clothing. Even as he watched, a gash opened across her pale breasts, and another down one cheek.

A thin trickle of blood came from between Jo's lips, but she was breathing. She was alive. She looked up at him as he held her, her brown eyes all pain and confusion. "John..." she whispered.

He supported her head with one hand, the way he would a baby. "Ssh," he said gently. "Don't talk. You'll be okay now." He knew it was a lie. Just as he'd lied to her father when he, too, lay dying.

"John...I'm sorry..." Jo's breath left her in a sigh. She did not take another.

Ellen knelt on the other side of Jo's body. She took it all in quickly: the blood, the deep cuts on Jo's face and body. "Oh, God. John, what did you do?" The words were accusing, but Ellen's tone was not.

John lifted Jo's body a little, allowing Ellen to take her from his arms. "I didn't have time to do anything, Ellen. Not even an exorcism. This is...what the demon left behind." As Ellen took her daughter's weight from his arms, John reached up his hand and gently closed the girl's eyes. He didn't say _I'm sorry_. It would be meaningless.

"No!" Ellen hugged Jo to her. "No. Please, no."

The denial was one of despair. If Ellen believed there was any hope, she'd be performing CPR. And John would have helped, even knowing it was useless. But Ellen didn't try. So she knew Jo was gone.

There was nothing worse than losing a child. John sold his soul rather than face the pain Ellen was going through now, for the second time. John knew there was nothing he could say or do to make this easier. All he could do was be there, if she needed him. He remembered a little girl in pigtails, who adored her daddy and played poker for candy, and John grieved for her too. Jo was dead because of him. He would never know for certain, of course, but from the wounds on her body he knew she'd been tortured. It wasn't difficult to reconstruct what must have happened.

"That's very touching," Ruby's voice broke into John's thoughts, "but as you just spilled your guts to Lilith, maybe you should worry about the living."

Ellen raised her head, her face streaked with tears. "She's my daughter, you bitch!"

"And she's dead," Ruby retorted. "She doesn't care any more."

John whirled around to face her. David and Bobby were flanking the demon, guarding her. David held John's Palo Santo stake. John met Ruby's eyes. He couldn't read her expression but it wasn't what he'd expected to see. It was almost as if she cared.

She had said, _you just spilled your guts to Lilith_. John remembered that needle of pain he felt and understood what she meant: the demon took something from his mind. He wanted to ask if she knew the demon came from Lilith or if she was just guessing, but he didn't waste time with questions. It had taken what it wanted and escaped. That was all John needed to know.

"Get her in the Jeep," John ordered David. He reached across Jo's body to touch Ellen's arm gently. "Ellen, I'm so sorry, but we're out of time. Tell me what you want to do."

She only looked at him, uncomprehending.

John knew it was cruel, but he had no choice. "Ellen, there is no time, do you understand? Do you want to stay here with Jo? You have to tell me _now_."

Ellen gazed down at her daughter. "We have to...take care of her...John?"

"Honey, we can't. Do you need to stay?" John was torn. He didn't want Ellen to have to deal with this alone, but he couldn't order her to abandon Jo's body here. It had to be _her_ choice and she had to make it _now_.

Ellen met his eyes, taking a deep breath. "I'm with you, John."

John took her at her word. "Bobby, find an empty room and pick the lock. We'll leave Jo's body inside. Make sure you don't leave fingerprints."

"Got it." Bobby left.

"David, there's a phone booth about a mile down the road. Call 911 and tell them whatever bullshit you can come up with."

"Sure. Right away?"

"Yes. We'll pick you up as we leave." John waited for David to take off before turning back to Ellen. "Ellen, the cops will find her. In a couple of days you can report her missing...it'll just be another unsolved murder and you'll be able to take her home. Okay?"

Ellen wiped her eyes. Jo's body still lay between them. "Okay. Yes. It's a plan."

"Should I carry her for you?" John asked gently.

"I can carry her," Ellen insisted, her voice stronger. She gathered Jo into her arms and climbed unsteadily to her feet.

Bobby had broken into a room on the upper floor of the motel. Ellen carried her daughter's body up there and laid her gently on the bed.

John nodded to Bobby, telling him silently to leave. He moved up to Ellen's side.

Ellen fell into his arms without saying a word. John held her close. They didn't have much time, but she needed this. _He_ needed this. John stroked her hair and laid a tender kiss on her temple.

"It's my fault," Ellen said, her voice muffled against his shirt. "I shouldn't have involved her in this."

"It's not your fault," John answered firmly. "A demon killed her."

Ellen drew away from him, just enough to look into his face. "Yes," she agreed, but I'm not like you, John. Revenge won't bring her back."

"I never thought it would. But it's something. Sometimes it's all we have." He was still holding her. "Are you ready?"

Ellen looked back to Jo. She nodded, once. "I'm ready. Let's go save your boys."

As they left the room, John covered his hand with his shirt-tail and closed the door carefully behind them. He heard a distant rumble of thunder and looked up at the sky. To the north west, he saw storm clouds gathering.


	8. Chapter 8

The rain started before lunch and became steadily heavier all day. This put Dean in a terrible mood, because he wanted to go swimming. Also, the cabin roof leaked.

Several pans and bowls were scattered around the cabin's two rooms, catching the rain falling through the roof. The rain forced them to stay inside and the inactivity drove Dean crazy. He tried to fill the time by working. He cleaned guns and sharpened knives. He checked the salt supply and made use of the rain to replenish their supply of holy water. The pan nearest the door still had a rosary at the bottom of it. Dean wondered idly if the leaky roof would dilute the holy water or if the rain would sort of get automatically blessed by dripping into the pan.

The area around the iron stove was clear of leaks, so that was where they ended up, playing Poker by candlelight and the glow of the stove. Poker wasn't much fun with only the two of them playing: they both knew each other too well. Dean always knew when Sam was bluffing. Sammy had a hundred little tells that only someone who knew him the way Dean knew him would notice.

They'd been playing cards together since Sammy's hands got big enough for him to shuffle a deck. They played loud games of Snap in the back seat of the Impala while Dad drove them from one hick town to the next. They played Gin Rummy with a marked deck on long nights waiting for Dad to come home from a hunt. Then real gamblers' games as they got older, and Dad taught them the many variations of Poker and lectured them both long and often about never gambling what they couldn't afford to lose.

Dean squinted at his cards and lightning flashed again. Dean counted the seconds in his head until the thunder: one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one- and the thunderclap came, echoing off the mountains around them.

Dean tossed his last dollar onto the pile on the table. "Show me your cards, Sammy."

Sam laid the cards down slowly, one at a time, with a shit-eating grin on his face. Two sevens, two deuces.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Not bad." Then he tossed his own cards down. "Read 'em and weep," he crowed.

Sam grinned back. "That ace was up your sleeve."

Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother. "You callin' me a cheat?" he demanded.

"No, I'm calling you a Winchester." Sam shook the sleeve of his own shirt and a couple of cards fell out. "It doesn't count as cheating," Sam said, "if I see you doing it."

"Bitch," Dean accused good-naturedly.

"Jerk," Sam returned.

Dean pushed his chair back from the table. "You want another beer?" he offered, heading for their stash. As he passed the window, some movement or trick of the light outside caught his attention. Dean, instantly alert for trouble, moved closer to the window, peering through the glass into the darkness.

That was when he heard it: the low growl of a huge dog. Dean saw nothing, but the sound was close, terribly close. It was not unexpected, but the sound sent a chill through his body and drained the blood from his face. For a moment, Dean couldn't even move.

He had convinced himself it would be a kind of relief when the time finally arrived; as if the waiting was the worst part. He had been wrong.

"Dean? You see something out there?" Sam called.

Dean turned around just as lightning flashed again, bleaching out the cabin for an instant. "Nothing," he lied, well aware that his voice would betray him. Thunder rolled around the cabin, but the barking of the Hell hounds was louder. Surely Sam could hear it? The wind rattled the cabin door.

Dean swallowed, hard. "I'm gonna take a walk." He tried to make it casual, as if he did this all the time.

Sam moved toward him then and Dean couldn't meet his brother's eyes. The pain was too raw in Sam's face. He knew.

"Don't..." Sam began, reaching out to Dean.

"I have to go, Sam. God! I wish I didn't but..." And then Sam touched him and the shield Dean so carefully built up dissolved. Without thought, without even knowing he was going to move, Dean was in Sam's arms, hugging him, tears filling his eyes and he knew Sam was crying, too. Dean's tears were fear, yes, and grief. He was losing Sam all over again and this time there was no fixing it, no deal to be made, no miracle cure to find. Sam held him like he would never let go and Dean didn't want him to.

Dean didn't know, or care, how long they stood there like that. Sam's body warmed him; the silence held all of the things neither of them could ever say aloud.

It was Sam who pulled away first. "I'm coming with you," he announced, in a voice that brooked no argument.

"Like Hell you are!"

"Try and stop me."

Dean shook his head. "Sammy, you can't do anything. It's too late for that. And I'm not gonna let you try. Don't make me stop you. I don't want that to be the last..."

"Damn you, Dean!" Sam burst out.

Dean laughed shakily. "Already done, I think." He met his brother's eyes unhappily. "C'mon, Sammy." There were no jokes left in him, no smart-ass remarks, no deflecting grin. Dean wanted this moment to be honest, if nothing else in his life ever was.

Sam hugged him close again. He rested his face on Dean's shoulder. He said nothing.

Dean pulled away before Sam could feel him shaking. He glanced over to the bed, where his leather jacket waited for him. Then he thought, _Why bother?_ The rain couldn't hurt him now. Instead, Dean picked up one of the newly cleaned shotguns. He loaded the gun with rock salt.

Dean would pay his due. But he intended to go down fighting.

Sam hadn't moved. Dean looked back at him, trying to think of something to say. Nothing came to mind. Dean reached for the door handle and turned it. The door flew open, wind and rain blowing into his face. Dean looked at Sam once more and walked out into the night.

***

Dean's boots slipped and slid on the wet ground, making it difficult to run, but run he did. At first, Dean told himself he only wanted to get away from the cabin, so Sam would not witness whatever was going to happen to him. Dean figured it wouldn't be pretty.

He heard invisible hounds behind him. Adrenaline surged through his veins and he dodged through the trees, running for himself, now, not for Sam. Dean ran for his life. He ran for the sheer joy of stealing one last minute from the Hell hounds at his heels. He knew they would get him in the end. This wasn't about trying to get out of his deal. It just wasn't in him to lay down and die without a fight.

His foot caught in something and he fell headlong into the mud. The Hell hounds closed around him, snarling and barking. Dean could feel them, hot breath on his skin. Shit, he could _smell_ them! He rolled onto his back and raised the shotgun. He fired blindly into the pack. They barked louder, but it sounded as if they were backing off. Dean felt a grin touch his lips. Good to know they didn't like rock salt. He abandoned the now-empty gun and scrambled up. He took off into the dark woodland.

He heard the Hell hounds ahead of him as well as behind. They were pack hunters, of course. Predators. They would surround him and run him down. Lightning tore through the woods and in the flash he thought he saw a clear path to his left. Dean plunged off in that direction. The ground seemed more solid beneath his feet: rock, perhaps, instead of mud, but still his feet slipped on the wet ground.

Branches whipped Dean's face and neck; twigs caught on his wet shirt. Cold rain plastered his hair to his head and trickled down his neck. Dean slipped and his foot sank into water up to his knee. It was a stream, flowing downward into the lake. Dean stayed in the water and waded downstream. He didn't really believe the water would throw the Hell hounds off his scent, but what did he have to lose? Loose stones shifted beneath his boots and he wasted a precious second to duck down and grab one. Ammo, for his last stand. It would be soon.

The stream ended in a waterfall and Dean slid down the rocky falls on his back. His head plunged under the water and the sudden cold made him try to take a breath. Water filled his nose and mouth and he coughed, panicking for a second before he found air again. Rocks bruised his legs, his butt and - painfully - his spine.

Dean's breath came in short gasps; his muscles screamed for respite. Dean couldn't stop. He climbed out of the water and found himself at the lake's edge. Where was he? Which way was the cabin?

An invisible mouth breathed down his neck and a claw raked his back. Dean felt his shirt tear, felt his blood flow. He put on a fresh burst of speed. The baying of the Hell hounds was deafening and terrifying. Rain pounded his shoulders. He saw lightning flash, splitting the clouds above the mountains. He couldn't hear the thunder over the Hell hounds' barking.

They were playing with him, Dean realised suddenly. The Hell hounds could have taken him down at the stream. Instead they were following behind him, letting him think he was getting ahead. They were guiding him in the direction they wanted. And Dean was letting them. He wasn't thinking like a hunter any longer.

He squeezed the rock in his hand and, at last, Dean had had enough.

He stopped running.

With the last of his breath, he screamed his defiance into the night. "You want me, bitch? Come and get me!"

And a voice answered him. A voice Dean obeyed so automatically that he never stopped to think it was impossible. His father's voice shouted over the wind and the thunder, "Dean! Hit the deck!"

Dean flung himself down as gunfire exploded around him. He looked up, disbelieving, to see John Winchester bearing down on him through the storm.

***

When he watched Dean walk out, alone, into the storm, Sam would have given anything, absolutely _anything_ to save him.

That was, he knew, the point. In the yellow-eyed demon's master plan, Dean's soul was supposed to be hostage for Sam's co-operation. Sam would have gone along with whatever Azazel demanded as the price for Dean's soul, and, once he started down that road there would have been no turning back for him. But Dean ended that when he killed that yellow-eyed son of a bitch. Dean saved Sam, as he'd been saving him all of Sam's life, but Azazel's death could not save Dean's soul. Someone else held that contract.

Sam had to watch his brother walk out, alone, into the storm. He flinched when the door slammed behind Dean. Sam wanted, so badly, to walk out there with him. But this was the last thing Dean ever asked of him. Sam understood his brother's need to do this alone and he _had_ to honour that, no matter how much it hurt.

He leaned his forehead against the cool window. His breath fogged the glass and he wiped it off with one hand. He saw a flash of light out there in the distance: a flash that wasn't lightning. Sam didn't care what it was. He didn't give a crap about anything but Dean, who was dying. It was only the long years of training that made him peer through the glass, seeking a better view of that flash.

It was a car, or maybe a truck, coming up the track toward the cabin. Sam couldn't think who might have reason to come here, especially in this storm. He'd never known demons to drive, but this could only mean trouble.

Sam went for the guns. Thanks to Dean's insistence on cleaning them earlier, the three shotguns were lined up against the wall, all newly cleaned and oiled. Sam loaded all three: two with rock salt, one with buckshot. He picked up his semi-automatic and slid the clip out. It was fully loaded. Sam rammed the clip back into place and pushed the gun through his belt at the small of his back. Then he picked up one of the shotguns and went to the door.

He could use something to kill about now.

The vehicle was an SUV. It was almost at the cabin. Sam could barely see anything through the driving rain. Lightning flashed, illuminating the landscape for an instant and revealing several people inside the Jeep. It was gone before Sam could recognise anyone. He wasn't even sure if they were male or female. He stood in the doorway of the cabin and waited.

The Jeep halted and someone leapt out of the back. "Sam!" Bobby yelled, running toward him.

Sam hurried down to meet Bobby. The rain drenched them both in seconds; Sam paid no attention. "Bobby? What the hell...?"

Bobby had to shout to be heard over the wind and rain. "Is Dean inside?"

An hour before, Sam would have thrilled to hear those words. Now, he felt only despair. _Oh, God. No. Not now it's too late!_ Sam shook his head. He tried to say, "He's gone," but the words stuck in his throat.

"Sam?" Bobby yelled.

Sam swallowed the lump in his throat. "Did you find something?" he managed to ask.

"Not something," Bobby answered. He looked back over his shoulder. "Some_one_."

***

John's original plan was to give Bobby time to explain his presence before he showed his face. John had trained his boys well enough that he was sure neither of them would readily accept him, back from the dead. But it was obvious from the moment he saw Sam that Dean wasn't at the cabin. John was out of time.

John reached up to break the devil's trap for Ruby. He felt very uneasy about allowing her to help, but he believed she had bound herself in a deal with Sam. If her story was true, _if_ it was true, then she had no choice but to keep her end of the bargain. John suspected that the instant she was free of her deal, she would try to rip out his heart and feed it to him. But for now she appeared co-operative.

He climbed down from the Jeep and ran toward his son. He saw Sam recognise him and start to aim the shotgun. Bobby laid one hand on Sam's gun, stopping him from aiming it.

"Sammy, where's Dean?"

"He's gone." Sam's face showed his utter shock, but his voice was steady. "Just minutes ago. Dad...is it really you?"

John was desperate to hug him, but he settled for grasping Sam's arm firmly. "It's really me, son. I know about Dean's deal. I know how to get him out of it."

"You're too late - " Sam began.

Ruby appeared at his side. "Dean's still alive. But you don't have long."

"Ruby?" Sam exclaimed.

"Focus, Sam!" John snapped. He half-expected Sam to argue with him, but Sam nodded curtly. John turned to Ruby. "Do you know where he is?"

"Dean? No." She tossed her head angrily. "But I can feel the Hell hounds. I can take you there."

John pulled Sam to one side, telling Ruby with a look to stay where she was. Sam followed John's lead so John took him to the cabin steps. "Son, Dean doesn't have long so just answer my questions. Okay?"

"Yes!" Sam slicked his wet hair back from his face.

"Do you understand what the demon did to you? Do you know what you are?"

Sam frowned. "I think so. I know what he did the night mom died." Sam sounded scared.

John hadn't counted on Sam's fear. "Son, we can save your brother, but it will only work if you can accept what you are. Embrace it."

Sam shook his head in denial. "No! Dad, I can't! You don't understand..."

John shoved Sam up against the cabin wall. "Yes! I do!" he shouted over the thunder.

Sam was still shaking his head. "Dad, I have to fight this every fucking day! You can't know what they want me to do."

John looked into his son's eyes. "Sammy, oh, Sam, don't you get it yet? _What_ you are is not _who_ you are. You still have choices. Come on, Sam." _Come on, Sammy. This is the only way._ The one thing John never expected was Sam's resistance.

"You told Dean he'd have to kill me. Can you do it, Dad?"

Sam meant it. Shit. There was no time to argue. John met Sam's eyes and lied to him. "It won't come to that, son. But if it does, yes. I can. I will."

Sam closed his eyes for a moment. "Alright. What do I have to do?"

Relief flooded through John. "There isn't time to explain. Just follow my lead."

"A clue would be nice!" Sam protested.

John had to smile. Sam was right, but John couldn't risk saying too much aloud. Who knew what was listening, tonight? "Do you remember when you were about nine, a book of Scottish ghost stories you found in school?"

Sam looked at him like he was crazy. "Yes, but - "

"You remember me taking my belt to you not long after? You remember _why_ I did that?"

Sam's eyes went wide and John knew he understood. "Dad, that was a game! We were kids!"

John nodded. "If you were just a normal kid, yeah. But you're not, Sam. If you are what you were meant to be, it wasn't just a kid's game. Son, it's all I've got. Can you do this?"

Sam hesitated. He was looking past John. John turned to see Ruby watching them.

"Tick, tock, guys!"

Sam said, "You're _certain_ this will save Dean?"

John answered honestly. "I can summon the demon and I can get this started. He'll be forced to deal with you. But you're the one who'll have to finish it."

Ruby yelled again. "Hey!"

Sam moved forward. "Alright. Let's go."

Ruby looked at Sam. "You'll need a knife. And I can only carry two of you."

"That's not gonna work," John objected.

She rounded on him. "That's the way it is, dumbass! I've only got two hands. You want to walk? He'll be dead before you can get halfway."

Sam produced a knife from his sleeve. "What do you need?"

John stared at him. Did he really trust this demon? Damn it, but they didn't have a choice! He turned to Bobby. "Better get inside the cabin. Arm up."

Bobby nodded. "We'll be ready."

Ruby ignored them. To Sam, she said, "I can't do this without a sacrifice. Blood. Don't blame me, that's just the rules. Cut your left hand."

Sam didn't argue, he just cut his palm open. Rain mingled with his blood as he held his hand out to her.

"John. Your turn."

John didn't like it, but he complied, offering his right hand to Sam's blade. He held still while Sam drew the knife across his palm. The pain was sharp. The pain was nothing. He said to Ruby, "You get us to Dean, then get the hell out, understand?"

She gave him a look that clearly said she had no intention of sticking around. That was fine with John.

Bobby threw John a shotgun. John caught it just as Ruby took his hand in hers. "Walk," she instructed.

They walked. Suddenly they were walking beside the lake. There was no warning, no sensation of movement. They were just there. Lighting tore through the sky above them.

John heard Dean's shout. "You want me, bitch? Come and get me!"

He whirled, swinging his shotgun upward. "Dean! Hit the deck!" John fired without waiting and Dean dropped to the ground just in time. Sam followed John's lead, firing into the darkness. Father and son moved as if they'd rehearsed it, each dropping their shotgun, drawing a handgun and firing together into the darkness. They both ran to Dean.

"Sam, give me your knife," John ordered, and Sam obeyed, offering him the knife, hilt-first.

John knelt in the grass. There hadn't been time for the cut in his palm to close, but he scored it through again anyway. Blood welled around the knife. John whispered the invocation, letting his blood fall onto the grass. "I conjure and command thee, O demon..." Thunder roared, drowning his words. "_Baruc, Patachel, Alcheeghel, Cebon..._" It was magic of the darkest kind, summoning demons. John got to his feet, praying he'd got this right. He shouted the forbidden name at the top of his voice. "_Beelzebub!_ Show yourself!"

It was as if the storm itself held its breath.

In the moment of silence, John held the knife out to Sam as if returning it. But he didn't give Sam his own knife. It was Ruby's blade he offered. He could tell from Sam's momentary hesitation that Sam recognised it. Without a word, Sam slid the knife into his sleeve.

The only sound was the rain, a constant splashing on the surface of the lake, a loud patter on the grass, on John's skin.

Dean was staring at John, his expression horrified. John wished there were time to explain. He tried to convey with a look that it would be okay. A look was all he had time to offer.

A column of flame burst from the ground between John and Dean, from the place where John's blood fell. It shot straight up like a geyser, easily twelve feet high. John stepped backward as the blazing heat scorched his skin. Then it was gone. In place of the fire stood the demon John had summoned. Beelzebub, the Lord of Flies, adversary of angels.

What his boys might be seeing, John didn't know. He saw a demon in the shape of a man. His features were in darkness so all John could see of his face were the eyes: glowing, red eyes. The "man" was as tall as Sam, but thin and wiry, his shoulders narrow so he looked unnaturally tall, out of proportion. Though it was hard to tell in the dark, John thought his clothing was black, a neat suit. It reminded John of a priest, without the collar.

John moved quickly to stand at Dean's side. Sam was helping his brother up. They stood, one on each side of Dean, guarding him.

John aimed his gun square between those scarlet eyes. "Call off your Hell hounds!" he ordered.

"Dad, no!" There was real terror in Dean's protest and John understood, but he couldn't even spare a glance for Dean now.

Sam said sharply, "Dean, be quiet!"

Beelzebub's livid gaze held John. Its voice was like nails on a blackboard. "You dare to summon me for this? This soul is mine, freely sold and the full price paid."

John held his gun steady, pointed at the demon's head. Bullets were useless against something like this, and John knew it. It was the gesture that made his point. "Your contract," John said steadily, "was never valid." Demons could read minds; it would read the truth of his words.

Beelzebub pointed to Sam. "Then the other boy's life is mine."

Dean shouted again, "No!"

"Demons," John said scornfully. "You never read the fine print." He lowered the gun and gestured toward Dean. "Dean has kept every part of his contract. Here he is, ready to give up his soul. He's tried to stop me twice just while we're standing here. Your terms haven't been broken. But _Sam_ never agreed to your contract. You can't hold him to it."

"I claim my due, then," the demon rasped. "This soul."

This was the moment. It was up to Sam to finish it. All John could do now was give Sam his cue and pray like crazy he would follow it.

"Like I said," John answered, "you should have read the fine print. _Dean's soul wasn't his to sell_." John risked a glance at his boys. He saw Dean react to his statement but mercifully he stayed silent. Sam was simply standing there, rigid, watching the demon.

The demon laughed. It was a horrible sound, like nails on a blackboard. "A desperate lie!" he declared.

Sam moved forward, right on cue, and John could breathe again. His face was a mask of hatred and anger. "No lie. Dean is _mine_ and I won't let you take him."

Beelzebub's eyes flashed with fire. "The contract was freely made."

"But I have the prior claim," Sam answered firmly.

"You think you can fight me for him? You don't have the power, boy."

John edged closer to Dean's side, leaving the field for Sam.

Sam laughed. "Maybe you're right." He spread his hands wide in an exaggerated shrug. "Still, you know what happened to the last demon that went up against me and my family."

_Careful, Sammy,_ John warned silently, but this was Sam's play now. All John could do was be ready to back him up.

Beelzebub turned his face toward John and Dean. John braced himself for the onslaught but Sam gestured abruptly, flinging up one hand as if to catch something invisible. He stepped in front of them, a living shield for his family.

Sam glanced back over his shoulder. "Take care of Dean," he ordered.

Sam advanced toward Beelzebub. The demon pointed to them and a jet of flame flew past Sam. John pulled Dean out of the way, dragging them both to the wet ground. He saw Sam block a second blast with his own body.

Dean yelled, "Sam!"

John clapped a hand over Dean's mouth. "Don't distract him!" he snapped. "It's Sam's fight now." He removed his hand.

Dean turned frightened eyes to John. "Dad? Am I dreaming? Am I _dead_?"

_If you were dead, son, you'd be in Hell and believe me, you wouldn't need to ask._

"No, son." John added no explanation, as he would have for Sam. Dean, unlike his brother, wouldn't demand details in the middle of a crisis.

Dean slumped to the ground, as if all the strength suddenly left him. John saw that his shirt was badly torn at the back, and there was blood on it.

"How bad are you hurt?" John asked.

Dean shook his head. "It's nothing."

They both heard Sam cry out in pain. Dean looked up to where Sam had been, and in the next flash of lightning, John saw Dean's terror for his brother.

Satisfied Dean was okay, John turned back to the fight. By the time he looked up, it was over.

***

From the moment Dad gave him Ruby's knife, Sam understood what he was meant to do.

They had all told him he had power. Missouri Mosely, Ava Wilson, Azazel. Jake told him that all he had to do was relax into it. Sam had felt it that night, like a fire burning deep inside, and it scared the crap out of him. He slammed a lid on it, nailed it down tight and prayed that Azazel's death meant it was over. He told Dean it was gone: no more freaky visions. He told everyone that, as if wishing the thing could make it so.

There was truth in the lie, but lie it was. The power was a simmering volcano inside. It seemed to erupt when he lost control through anger or fear. It happened with Ruby. It happened with Gordon. But most of the time, Sam's fear was what kept him in control of it. He remembered how the power shattered Ava's sanity. He remembered Jake, and knew that if he let this monster inside have its way with him, he would never come back from it. The power was evil.

But for Dean, for the brother he loved more than anything in the world, Sam took the seal off that inner volcano.

The demon Beelzebub mocked him, arrogant in his immortality. "You think you can fight me for him? You don't have the power, boy."

Sam laughed derisively, because he knew that wasn't true. This thing that wanted his brother's soul was dead. Sam hadn't thought he could hate anything more than he'd loathed the yellow-eyed demon, who murdered his mother and Jessica and even his father. But this demonic bastard had done far worse. It threatened _Dean_.

"Maybe you're right." Sam took a step forward, spreading his hands wide. He used the moment to examine the area, finding the things he could use. A fallen branch, sharp rocks, uneven ground. Perhaps even the lake itself. "Still," he added, "you know what happened to the last demon that went up against me and my family."

It was a poor threat, and Sam didn't expect it to be effective. He _wanted_ the demon to see him as overconfident.

The most frightening thing to Sam wasn't the thought that he might lose this fight. It was how easily Sam knew he could win. The power in him wanted this. It wanted to be let loose, to fight, to tear, to kill.

Sam knew, before the demon moved, what it was going to do. Sam flung up a hand to block the blast of power that would have sent Dean flying into the trees. Incredibly, it worked. Sam expected it to hurt, the way his visions always hurt, but the action felt smooth as silk. He hadn't even needed the gesture; he could have done it with a thought.

_Oh, God, what's happening to me? What am I becoming?_

_This is how we save Dean._

"Take care of Dean!" Sam threw the words back over his shoulder, never considering that it was John Winchester he was ordering around. John who _gave_ orders, who never took them. He moved forward one more step.

The sudden jet of flame took Sam by surprise, because he'd never seen a demon do that before. It shot past him. Intense heat singed his hair, steam rose from his rain-wet shirt and he smelled the sulphur. He knew Dean was the target.

_Stay the fuck away from my brother, you bastard!_

Sam felt his eyes change as the volcano of power inside finally erupted. Beelzebub aimed a second jet of flame at Dean. Sam leapt into its path. The flame engulfed him. Sam's shirt burned away where the jet of flame touched, plastic buttons melting painfully into his skin. But the fire itself could not touch him. His waterlogged jeans were suddenly boiling hot and Sam yelled in pain. But pain only made the fire in him burn hotter.

Not even knowing what he would do until he acted, Sam struck out with his power. He saw Beelzebub recoil, saw blood spray from his neck in a wide arc. Sam fell to his knees. Pain weakened him, but he wanted to appear weaker. He needed the demon to come to him. He gestured, gathering pebbles from near the lake and pelting the demon with them. He paid no attention, as Sam expected.

Beelzebub smiled, sensing victory. He moved toward Sam and he held his breath.

The instant the demon was within range, Sam attacked.

All of the anger and terror and gut-wrenching grief of the past year erupted inside him. This demon was the cause of all of it. Sam attacked with his fists. He was no longer thinking of this as a duel he must win. He just wanted to _hurt_ it. His rage translated to strength and he dragged the demon down. It was strong, and it fought him. He felt invisible knives slash his skin, felt blood flow, but he ignored the pain. Power surged in his blood.

Ruby's knife, hidden in Sam's sleeve until that moment, fell easily into his hand. Sam plunged the knife into the demon's heart. He felt power crackle across his skin. There was a fiery light from the wound he had made. He pulled the knife free of flesh. Blood pumped out after the knife, coating the blade and Sam's hand, his arm, his body. Sam stabbed Beelzebub again and again. Only when he was certain, absolutely certain, did Sam stop.

He straightened, turning his face upward into the driving rain. He still straddled Beelzebub's body - a broken, human body now - and blood ran down his bare chest, mingling with the rain. Sam raised his hand, letting the knife fall to the grass.

He had forgotten about Dean. He had forgotten everything. The power Sam had so long denied pulsed in his blood and Sam knew he would never be the same again.


	9. Chapter 9

"Sam!" Dean ran to his brother, half-tripping over a loose stone in his hurry. "Sammy!"

Sam straddled the body the demon had been using. His chest was bare, a few charred scraps all that remained of his shirt. There were long, diagonal scratches across his chest like claw marks, blood still flowing from them in streaks. Sam's arms were spread wide as if in supplication. He gave no sign he heard or saw Dean there.

Dean grasped Sam's bare shoulders and shook him. "Sam!"

Sam slowly turned his head to look at Dean.

Dean drew back with a gasp. "Sammy...your eyes!"

Sam swayed. "I know," he said dreamily. "I can feel it. But I don't know what I look like. How do I look, Dean?"

Too scared to offer a sarcastic reply, Dean answered truthfully. "Your eyes...you look like Jake."

It seemed to reach Sam. His face crumpled as if he were about to cry. Without warning, Sam pulled Dean into his arms. He hugged Dean close to him, just as he had after that endless Tuesday when the trickster made Sam watch Dean die so many times. Hugging Sam over a still-warm corpse wasn't Dean's idea of a reunion, but he returned the hug, slapping Sam on the back.

"Alright, Sam. It's alright."

John bent to pick up the bloody knife. He tore up a handful of grass and wiped the blade with it.

Dean watched his father, and sudden, blind rage filled him. He wormed his way out of Sam's embrace, stood and walked the three paces to where John stood. Dean didn't ask any of the questions filling his mind. He looked into John's face - Jesus, could it truly be Dad? Dean drew back his fist and threw a punch with his full weight behind it. His knuckles hit John's jaw hard enough to split skin.

John must have seen it coming but he made no attempt to evade it or block. He fell, landed on his ass and half-sat up, supporting himself on one elbow. He gazed up at Dean. "I guess I deserved that."

The acceptance only fired Dean's anger. "How could you do that to him? After everything we've been through!" Dean deliberately turned his back and returned to Sam. "Come on, Sammy," he said gently, helping Sam up. "You're okay."

Sam accepted Dean's help, but shrugged off his arm once he was on his feet. He met Dean's eyes in the darkness and his eyes were Sam's again. Sam seemed about to say something, but instead he walked past Dean to their dad. He offered his hand to John, who was still on the ground. John took it and Sam hauled him up.

"Are you okay, Sammy?" John asked warily.

"I would have done anything to save Dean," Sam said clearly. "Anything. So I forgive you, Dad. But you used me. You used me like a weapon. I won't forget that."

John returned Sam's look steadily. "No. I don't suppose you will."

Dean moved to stand with his brother. Somehow, Sam's cold anger took the edge off Dean's own. "Is someone gonna tell me," Dean demanded, "what the hell is going on?"

John turned to him with a warm smile. "I'll tell you what I know. We're not out of danger, boys. We need to get back to the cabin."

Sam looked back at the broken body behind them. "I don't think he's much of a threat now."

"He's not," John agreed, "but Lilith is, and I'm afraid she knows where you are."

Dean swore.

***

John wasn't sure whether his sons had let him off easy or he should be waiting for the second boot to fall. He had accomplished his goal. Dean's soul was safe and both of his boys were alive. If they both hated him for the way he'd done it...that was a price John was willing to pay.

It was a long walk back to the cabin and they couldn't walk too quickly in the dark. While they walked, John told the boys what he knew of his resurrection. It wasn't much. When he was done, they walked in silence for a while.

"Dad," Sam broke the silence eventually, "what we just did...what does it mean?"

"What does what mean?" John didn't think Sam was asking about Dean's demon contract. He knew that was done.

Sam looked troubled. "Do I - God, it sounds crazy to say it, but, do I own Dean's soul now?"

John could see the lights of the cabin ahead of them and someone - Ellen, he thought - watching for them from the window. He walked more slowly, to give them time for the discussion. "That's maybe more complicated than you think, Sam," John began.

"Well, bottom-line it!"

"While Dean is alive, no one can 'own' his soul except him. These demon deals always require the person to die before the demon can claim its due." John looked at them both. "Technically, yes, he owes you his soul when he dies."

"Wait a minute," Dean objected. "I'd remember makin' that kind of a deal with Sam. I woulda gotten a decent price."

Sam snorted with suppressed laughter. "I still can't believe that counts as a contract."

"What counts?" Dean pressed.

"Dad reminded me," Sam explained. "When we were kids we read that story about a haunted castle in Scotland. The legend said the ghost was a man so addicted to gambling he put his own soul up as the stakes to play cards with the devil himself."

"Which is crap," Dean said, "because if he'd sold his soul there'd be no ghost."

"Yeah, but do you remember the game we made of it that winter? And how mad Dad was when he caught us?"

Dean stopped walking abruptly. "You've got to be kidding me. Seriously?"

Sam shrugged. "The rule was if we didn't finish the game, I won. Dad stopped the game. _I_ never took it seriously, but, dude, if the demon _did_, that's good enough for me."

"So where does that leave me?" Dean asked. He sounded worried.

John interrupted. "I have a suggestion, boys." He waited until they were both looking his way. "It doesn't matter that it was just a game when you were kids. What Sam just did seals the contract between you. But there's no reason you can't change the terms. Sam, the best thing you can do is just trade Dean's soul back to him._Trade_, don't give. It's only binding if you exchange something of value."

"Value like what?" Dean asked.

"Anything you choose," John answered.

Sam laughed suddenly and John felt his own heart lighten to hear that sound. If Sam could laugh, he was going to be fine.

"What?" Dean asked suspiciously.

"Just wondering what your car's worth to you," Sam grinned.

"A lot more than my soul!" Dean retorted.

The rain had eased off, but the slope leading up to the cabin was waterlogged and treacherous. John paused again before they reached the last part of the trek. "Boys, there's one more thing I need to tell you before we go inside."

Sam stopped to look at him. Dean walked a few more steps before turning back.

"There are three others with me, hopefully safe in the cabin."

"I saw Bobby," Sam agreed. "Who else?"

"Ellen Harvelle and someone I don't think you know: David Hunter. He's the one who still owes me - us - some answers. But what I want to tell you is about Ellen's daughter. Jo."

"Yeah, we know her," Dean volunteered. "Cute kid."

John hesitated, hoping she didn't mean something to Dean. Having no better way to put it, John said bluntly, "Jo's dead. She was supposed to join us on the way here, but when she did...it wasn't Jo. She didn't survive the exorcism."

"Oh," Dean said. "Oh, hell. You couldn't have left her out of this?"

"Ellen called her. I don't think she's really dealt with it yet," he added. "So go easy on her, okay?"

"Sure, Dad," Dean answered.

Sam was being very quiet. John had no idea how well they knew Jo, so he didn't push.

The slope beneath their feet levelled out as they approached the cabin. Just as they reached Ellen's Jeep, Ruby appeared in their path. She stood there, between them and the cabin, her arms crossed, her legs apart. It would have been more impressive if she wasn't soaked to the skin, her hair plastered to her head and clothing.

Sam started to move forward; John stopped him with a gesture.

"I want," Ruby declared, looking directly at John, "my property back."

"Go to Hell," he told her pleasantly.

"That's exactly where I'll end up if you don't let me have it back!"

"My heart bleeds for you," John said sarcastically.

"Dad, she helped us..." Sam began.

"Only because I forced her to help." John didn't take his eyes off the demon. "If you think I've come close to repaying you for what you did to me, you'd better think again. The next time you touch this knife will be when I gut you with it." John let his hand rest on the hilt and walked around her to the cabin steps.

After a brief hesitation, Sam and Dean followed him.

"What did that mean?" Sam asked. "What did she do to you?"

"I'll explain inside," John promised, and headed up the steps.

Bobby was at the door. He stepped back to let them enter. John glanced up at the symbols above the door as he stepped over the threshold. There would be no need for a holy water test: the protections Sam had set up around the cabin guaranteed nothing supernatural could enter.

Ellen was smiling as she walked toward John. She hugged him. "You did it, John."

He returned her hug. "Sam did it," he answered.

Sam hesitated at the door. Dean grabbed his arm and yanked him into the cabin. "See?" he snapped irritably. "You're still Sam."

"Jerk," Sam accused.

"Bitch," Dean grinned back. His smile remained as he turned to Bobby. John felt the atmosphere change as the two men looked at each other.

Bobby shook his head. "You got nine lives, boy," he told Dean gruffly.

Dean's smile vanished. "I think I used up eight of them tonight."

"Then don't go wastin' the one you got left," Bobby admonished.

Dean simply nodded and clasped Bobby's shoulder briefly as he walked past him.

John, watching the exchange, remembered Bobby telling him _I love the boy, too_. He wondered what he had missed.

Bobby turned to John. "I've checked all the windows and doors. Added a few traps of my own. It's overkill, but after your lecture about paranoia..." he shrugged eloquently.

John got the point. "I hear a 'but'," he prompted.

"_But_ none of it's worth a damn if Lilith's coming here. John, she ain't like any demon you ever faced. She doesn't need to get _in_. She blew apart a building in Monument and that was bricks and mortar."

Dean whirled around. "_Lilith's_ coming here?" He stared at John. "How does she know we're here? All our protection..."

"It's my fault," John confessed. "She got your location from me."

Dean made a sound of contempt. "Way to go! When you said she might know where we are I didn't think you'd drawn the bitch a map!"

Sam moved forward. "Are you sure, Dad? If she knows, why isn't she here already?"

"According to Ruby," John said," her plan was to attack you once Dean was gone. I trust Ruby about as far as I can throw her, but that's all we've got." Even as he spoke, he realised that didn't make much sense. It was past the time when Dean would have died. So why _wasn't_ she here? He met Sam's puzzled eyes and suddenly got it. _Sam_ was why. You don't kill an upper level demon without making waves in Hell. John frowned. "I think what Sam just did might have given her second thoughts."

Sam's expression showed he understood. "Fuck. You're right."

"What am I missing?" Ellen asked. "I mean, if we're not in danger of imminent attack, isn't that a good thing?"

John slid his arm around her again, leaving Sam to answer her question.

"She already thinks I'm a threat, Ellen. I was supposed to lead the yellow-eyed demon's army. If she knows what I just did she'll hit us twice as hard. And now we won't know when to expect her." He turned to John, his eyes hard. "You should have done as Ruby asked. She's - "

John interrupted. "If Ruby has any sense, she's gone for good."

"That's helpful."

"She's a _demon_, Sam!"

"Stop it!" Dean yelled.

Everyone turned to look at him.

"If I had any doubts..." Dean muttered, then, louder, "I swear, if you two don't cut it out I'm gonna start throwin' punches! Do we need to run for our lives or not?"

John took a deep breath. Dean was right.

"Lilith doesn't know as much as you think," David announced. He had been standing quietly near the cabin's window since they arrived. "The demon," David went on, "...Jo...she could not take from your mind more than was there, John."

"What do you mean?" John frowned.

"You weren't certain where this cabin is. We took a couple of wrong turns on the way here. So she doesn't know. Not exactly."

Ellen said, "I don't think we can leave tonight anyway. The Jeep can handle the track but with all this rain that ancient wreck Dean drives won't make it out of here."

"Hey!" Dean objected.

John couldn't help smiling. "She's right. The Impala can't handle these conditions. Alright, for tonight, we stay here. Ellen, would you take a look at Dean's wound?"

"Sure," she agreed.

"Sam, what about you? How badly are you hurt?"

Sam looked down at his blood-streaked chest. "I'm fine. Most of it's not my blood."

John nodded. "David and I will take first watch. The rest of you try to get some sleep." He looked at Sam. "Okay, Sammy?"

Sam gave him a confused look. "Uh...yeah. There's only two beds, though."

"You boys mind sharing?"

Sam hesitated, then shrugged. "We'll work something out."

***

David cracked the shotgun open, checking the load. "Rock salt," he said aloud. "That's cute."

John threw him a box of lead ammo. "Dean's idea. Works great with spirits."

David caught the box with his left hand. "But about as useful against demons as pelting them with cotton candy." He reached into his own canvas bag and withdrew a small tin. "Try these." He offered the tin to John.

The tin had held tobacco once but it was so worn the brand was barely visible. John opened the lid and inspected the contents. They were, as expected, bullets, but not like any ammo John had ever seen. They were hollow shells made of what looked like glass and filled with a clear liquid. He found himself smiling. "This ain't...?"

"Holy water. The bullets work like safety rounds - they explode on impact. Minimal damage to the human body, but demons _really_ don't like it."

John raised his eyebrows, impressed. "You make these?"

"No, I have a contact in Albuquerque who makes the hollow rounds. I just add the holy water. Or silver nitrate. Occasionally other things."

"And you claim you're not a hunter?" John shook his head sceptically.

"I am no longer a hunter in the way you are. I don't seek these things out. I do know how to deal with them when they find me." He closed the shotgun, now loaded with lead buckshot. "You didn't set this up to talk ammo." He walked to the window.

They had blown out the candles so the only light came from the softly-glowing stove in the centre of the room. It gave them a reasonably clear view of the landscape outside the cabin, though with clouds still covering the moon and stars, there was very little light to see anything. Keeping watch would be a challenge.

John moved to the other window. "No," he agreed. "So why don't you start at the beginning?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything. Who are you? _What_ are you?"

David turned toward John. "I thought you would have guessed that part," he commented. "I am the same thing Sam is. The last of my generation of psychic children."

John studied the other man, thinking that over. It explained a great deal: David's interest in John and his family, his apparent ability to read minds, his undoubted power to restore John's lost memories...yes, it made sense, Except the one thing which meant it couldn't possibly be true.

"I spent a long time researching the last generation. None of them survived." John stated the fact baldly.

David didn't deny it. "I am a good deal older than I seem." He gave John a significant look.

John stared. A bullet wound that healed in less than an hour: the side-effect of a curse, David had claimed. Now this. Like his claim to be like Sammy, it fit the facts.

John shook his head. "You call immortality a curse?"

"It was to me." David leaned back against the cabin wall. "I can't prove it to you, John. Not unless you want to test the theory by shooting me in the head. But allow me to tell you my story, first."

"I'm listening."

"I was born in East Africa about a hundred and twenty years ago. Like your son I had certain gifts and like him I was...changed by the demon with yellow eyes. But the world was very different then. The supernatural wasn't some urban legend no one believed. It was a daily reality. Spirits of the dead, night stalkers, witchcraft and demons: they were all around us. To the people I grew up with, my psychic gift marked me as their version of a hunter. A hero." David said that last with more sadness than pride.

"What did the demon do to you?"

"From the little Bobby has told me of Sam's experience it was similar. He came to me in dreams, encouraged me to do things. For me, there was no battle to the death with the others, perhaps because, unlike today, there was very little chance we would ever meet. The demon treated every generation differently and, I'm not certain, but I believe he saved that particular arena for Sam. I may have unintentionally done his bidding when I was young but mostly the demon left me alone...or, that's what I thought. I got on with my life. By the time I was Sam's age I had a wife and three children. I owned a small tract of land, a farm. It was a good life."

John wondered what _I unintentionally did his bidding_ meant. It was another reason to keep a close eye on David, but John wasn't going to ask. If it was bad, David would lie. John would do the research for himself, when he had time. "Let me guess: he fucked it up for you."

David frowned. "I always thought he was behind what happened. But Azazel is dead now and my curse continues. So perhaps I was wrong." He sighed heavily. "It was a witch. She was terrorising a nearby village and they sent to me for help. I was an arrogant fool and thought I could handle her on my own. I was mistaken."

"What happened?" John asked, fascinated despite his reservations.

"You know what I mean by 'witch'?"

John nodded. "They made demon pacts."

"Yes, but in Africa we have another kind of witch: the kind who create muti, medicine. Some of it is useful, some of it is harmless...and some of it is death magic. The magic can be powerful but those witches do not have power in their own right. The magic is in the muti, the ritual. I assumed I was dealing with that kind of witch. I was wrong. She had some serious power. When I tracked her down, she cursed me.  I knew she had cast some spell, but not the nature of the curse. The next night, she came to my home. I heard something and went to investigate. While I was wasting my time outside, she set fire to the house. The first I knew of it was hearing my wife screaming. By the time I reached her, the whole room was blazing. It was so hot, it hurt just to get close. I could not reach her."

John shivered, remembering Mary's death. He, too, had been alerted by her scream and unable to reach her through the flames. David said this happened a century ago, but John could hear the pain in his voice and the grief in his expression was very real. It still haunted him.

"I tried to get to my children, but I was too late to save them," David went on, his voice quiet. "I remember my daughter..." his voice trailed off.

"I'm still not seeing the curse," John prompted gently.

David looked at him. "Don't you, John? She cursed me _first_. The night of the fire I could have walked through those flames and carried my wife and children out of there. I could have saved them all. I would have been burned, but I would have healed. Instead I just stood there and watched them all die. Now I have to live with that. Forever. You tell me, John."

John nodded. "I see what you mean." He thought it very unlikely that David "just stood there", but he understood the point. How would _he_ have felt if he'd realised just a few days after Mary died that he could have saved her?

"Don't misunderstand," David added. "I'm not suicidal or depressed. I enjoy life. I'd just like to know there'll be an end to it someday."

"You really can't be hurt at all?"

David shrugged. "I can be hurt just as anyone else. I heal quickly and, so far, I cannot die. That's a curse all by itself sometimes. I met Bobby on a hunt. I chased a chucacabra off a cliff and I think I shattered every bone in my body."

John winced. "Yeah, I know how that feels." At David's questioning look he explained, "I spent a year in Hell, remember?"

"Indeed. I apologise."

"So, how _did_ you bring me back? Ellen told me the boys burned my body." John had a sudden flash of memory: _he raised his hands before his face and found the flesh burned, black and torn. Brittle skin cracked as he flexed his fingers and he saw his own bones._ Dear God, was that _real_? Not some memory of Hell?

David was silent for a moment then took off his amulet and passed it to John. "After World War Two, I finally accepted that this curse wouldn't let me die. I had been living in America, but only in Africa was there one who could break my curse. So I returned home. There are things more powerful than demons. Aziza is one of them."

_Aziza_. John had heard the name before. He frowned, turning the amulet over in his hands. The visible side was a protective symbol he recognised but the reverse, the side of the amulet that lay against David's skin, a stylised face was etched into the rawhide. "I've read about Aziza. She's a demon."

David shook his head. "No, John. In most of the lore of Africa, _demon_ is a mistranslation. It was Christian missionaries who collected the early lore and they considered any spiritual being of power to be a demon. Aziza is nothing to do with Hell. She was worshipped as a goddess but I don't think she's that, either. She's not good, not evil. Merely powerful."

"And you're what? Her worshipper?" John handed the amulet back to David.

David chuckled. "Not that. An ally, perhaps. I tracked her down and earned her aid, but she could not give me what I wanted. She could not break my curse. When I realised you were the key to saving Dean, I called in her debt to me. Raising the dead is something I knew she could do."

"What did you do to put her in debt to you?"

"A hunt. She likes hunters, whatever the prey."

"If she's so powerful, why did I lose my memories?"

"That's harder to explain," David admitted. "You have to understand, John, I'm not omniscient. You sold your soul. If you'd woken up with that horror fresh in your memory, you'd have been a basket case. You were supposed to lose that much of your past. Why you lost thirteen years instead of two..." he shrugged. "All I know is that you had some control over how much you needed to forget."

"Me?" John repeated. "How?"

"I don't know." David gave him a look. "I'm only human. She wouldn't explain it to me." He was silent for a moment, frowning. "I know I made some bad mistakes. You should not have been unconscious for so long. I left Sacramento to get help - mystical help - but you woke up while I was gone."

John knew the rest of that story. "Next time," he suggested, "leave a note or something. It might help."

David laughed. "If even half of Bobby's stories about you are true, that would not have helped."

Would a note from some stranger have kept him in the hospital? No, John admitted. He hadn't thought of anything beyond finding his boys. He peered through the window but could see very little out there. "I'm going to check the perimeter," he announced. "You okay here?"

"Of course, but...John, you should let me go. Unless you still don't trust me."

"Why you?"

"Because you're not expendable." David headed to the door.

John stopped him. "And you are?"

David smiled. "I'm hard to kill, John. I just got through telling you that."

John moved back from the door. "Alright. It's all yours."

***

The claw mark on Dean's back was four parallel lines scored deep across his left scapula. He winced as Ellen cleaned the cuts with iodine, but he didn't complain. She knew she was hurting him but she worried about infection.

Sam had dropped the charred remnants of his shirt on the floor and was rummaging through his duffel for a new one. "I guess Dean and I can share a bed. We always used to when we stayed here." He smiled weakly. "Of course, I was four then."

Ellen ran her fingers along the edge of the deepest wound. "The bleeding has stopped, Dean, but I think you need a couple of stitches to hold the muscle in place while it heals." That was the problem with back injuries: a person uses the muscles of the back a lot more than they realise, and one of the gouges on Dean's back had sliced into the muscle. If she didn't stitch it, the muscle could heal crooked: it would be ugly and might weaken him.

Dean answered through gritted teeth. "Fine. Do it."

It didn't take long. Just two stitches to hold the deepest cut together. Finally, Ellen selected a sterile dressing from the first aid kit and taped it down over the wound.

"Thanks, Ellen," Dean acknowledged.

"You can take the bed," Bobby suggested to her.

Ellen shook her head. "Do you really think I can sleep after..." she broke off, not wanting to talk about Jo.

Bobby met her eyes with an understanding nod. "Take the bed anyhow," he suggested. "You need rest."

"So do you," she insisted, "and if it comes to a battle, you'll need to be fresh, Bobby. Give me a blanket, and I'll wait for John to finish his heart-to-heart with David." She finished fixing the dressing on Dean's back and patted his shoulder. "You're all done."

He turned to face her with a quick smile. "Thanks," he said again. He craned his neck to see the dressing on his back. "Who _is_ that guy? Hunter can't be his real name."

"Probably not," Bobby agreed. "I've known him for a long time; he's a good man. He's used that name as long as I've known him."

"You never mentioned him to us," Sam objected. He'd found a clean t-shirt and was pulling it over his head as he spoke.

"I don't gossip about you boys to other folk, either," Bobby answered.

"Fair enough," Sam nodded.

"But who is he?" Dean pressed.

Sam interrupted, "Dean, let's just get some sleep."

"Dude, are you okay? Don't you want answers?"

Sam sighed, sitting down on the nearest bed. "Dean, it's been a long week and it's not over yet. I thought you - " he broke off abruptly.

Ellen understood. Sam wouldn't speak in front of them, but she knew what he wanted to say. Sam had believed Dean was going to die tonight. He had to be feeling more than a little overwhelmed. She turned away to give the boys a moment of privacy.

It took a while for everyone to get settled. The leaking roof wasn't too bad in here and fortunately neither of the beds was under a leak. Eventually, Ellen settled herself on the floor with a blanket around her shoulders. Bobby was asleep already; like most hunters, he could sleep anywhere. Sam and Dean were lying in the other bed. Ellen could hear them whispering to each other, but they were quiet enough that she couldn't hear the words. After a long time, the whispering stopped.

Alone in the dark, Ellen found her thoughts drifting back to Jo. Jo, stubborn and courageous, so like her father. Jo, dying in Ellen's arms. She wished she could blame John for her loss. It would give her a way to lash out, something to help her feel better. Which was, of course, just what she'd done when Bill died. Oh, but it was so easy to blame John then, with his bullet in Bill's head. She had driven him away in her grief and regretted it ever since.

_Oh, John. We really had something, didn't we?_ She was attracted to him from the beginning. On his first visit to the Roadhouse he was just another hunter. He'd show up from time to time, always alone. He kept to himself, mostly, drinking whiskey or beer, occasionally seeking information from the other hunters. But it was the way he watched the children that caught Ellen's attention. Ash and Jo were always scurrying around the bar; most hunters chased them off. John didn't. He'd watch them playing, and talked with them if they approached him. Ellen tried to talk with him, too, just friendly-like. She sensed something different in this unhappy, driven man. John was unfailingly polite to her, but rebuffed her efforts to get him to open up. It was the other hunters who told her things: John Winchester took out a poltergeist in New Jersey; John Winchester tracked down a cursed necklace in Ohio; John Winchester teamed up with Jim Murphy; John Winchester took down a whole werewolf pack in North Dakota... Perhaps some of the tales that reached Ellen were a little exaggerated but one thing was clear: John was becoming a legend among hunters.

One Christmas Eve before dawn he showed up at the Roadhouse with a serious concussion and his arm broken in three places. Ellen could suture a wound but setting bones so badly broken was beyond her rudimentary medical skills. She'd called a local doctor and lied through her teeth about who he was and how he got hurt. John stayed for three nights, out of his head on pain relief most of the time. He'd called her Mary. Ellen never told him that.

The next time he dropped by for a drink he was easier with her. He took to showing up more often. He'd ask after her kids and, once or twice asked her advice about his own boys. Ellen knew his feelings for her. She cared for him, too. She encouraged her Bill to get to know him, hoping they could work something out.

Then for two wonderful months she had John in her bed. She loved him. She watched him fall for Bill, too - that surprised her and thrilled her. But in the end she'd driven him away.

It already felt like weeks or even months since the night he came to her door. The night they made love. She'd taken shameless advantage of him, Ellen thought, but she couldn't regret it. She was too old to tiptoe around what she wanted.

She heard the cabin door open and close. No further sound came. Ellen stood and, careful not to disturb the others, she opened the door to the other room. She saw John there alone and walked in.

"John?" she called softly.

He turned from the window and smiled. "Hey. Can't sleep?"

"Bobby snores," she answered, moving toward him. She wondered if he really expected her to share a bed with any other man, even just for sleep. "Did you get the answers you wanted?"

"Some of them," John nodded. "Oh. I see. You want some answers yourself."

Ellen smiled. "I thought, as long as we're both awake, we should talk."

In the dim light, John looked very tired. How long since he'd slept? A couple of hours in the Jeep...but that was before the attack in the diner. Once Ruby joined them, John stayed awake, watching her. Ellen looked around for some sign of coffee. There was a copper kettle on the stove. She filled it with water and put it on to boil, then went looking for the rest. She found the groceries in two, now very wet bags. _Typical boys_, she thought as the bag tore open. But she found freeze-dried coffee and a couple of well-used tin cups. Good enough.

"If you have coffee, you'll never sleep," John said softly. He had come up behind her without Ellen noticing.

She jumped to find him so close. "I don't plan on sleeping," she said when her heart slowed down again. She turned to face him. "John, the other night..." It wasn't where she'd intended to begin; the words just tumbled out.

John slid one hand around her waist. He still held a shotgun in the other. "It was..." he began, then stopped as if searching for the right word. "Oh, hell, Ellen. If you want to forget it happened just tell me. I don't want to screw this up again."

"I want _you_," she said, moving into his arms.

John kissed her lightly, then turned them both so Ellen had her back to the door. "I'm on watch," he explained. John: always so cautious.

Ellen grinned. "Well, I wasn't suggesting we should fuck right here on the floor. Too many splinters!"

"What do you say," John suggested with a wicked smile, "we find a motel and stay in bed for a week?" He pulled her body against his, close enough for her to feel the hard bulge in his pants, leaving Ellen in no doubt what he wanted.

Ellen laughed. "You really have changed."

John's smile faded. "I was an idiot to leave the way I did. I should have at least returned your calls when I was tracking the demon. It took dying and going to Hell to knock some perspective into me."

"Better late than never," she said softly.

John leaned in to kiss her. "Ellen, I've got to take care of my boys. But I'm going to make time for us, too. I promise you that." His mouth met hers and Ellen closed her eyes, returning his kiss.

She felt John's shoulders tense suddenly under her hands and Ellen drew back from him. "What is it?"

"Hopefully, only David." John held his shotgun ready as he approached the cabin door.

"It is I," David called as the door swung open. He saw Ellen and nodded a greeting. "John, there's something out here you should see. I think they have discovered us."


	10. Chapter 10

Sam woke to the smell of coffee and to the warmth of his brother's body in his arms. He smiled sleepily, savouring the miracle: Dean, breathing and warm and alive. The miracle that they were both free of Dean's deal at last.

He felt Dean stir beside him. "Dude," Dean muttered, "you better not have wood."

"Screw you," Sam said pleasantly and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The door to the next room was open and the welcome scent of coffee still drifted in. Sam reached for the jeans he'd discarded the night before and found them stiff with caked mud. He groped under the bed for his duffel. "How's the shoulder?" he asked.

Dean, sitting up in the bed, craned his neck to check the dressing. "It's fine. Just a scratch." He wrinkled his nose. "You really need a shower."

"Right back atcha," Sam retorted, pulling on a fresh pair of pants.

They both dressed hurriedly and went to join the others. Sam saw Bobby first, sitting down with a plate of food.

Sam grinned. "Someone made breakfast?"

John was leaning against a pillar. He straightened up as they entered. Somehow, in the darkness and the storm of the previous night, it had seemed natural that John should be there. In daylight, the impossibility of this man's presence hit Sam anew. Dad was two years dead. They had burned his body, scattered the ashes to the four winds. Yet here he stood. John was dressed as he had always dressed: blue jeans, black t-shirt, military surplus shirt and boots. He looked a little worse for wear with several days' worth of beard, his hair tousled as if it had never seen a comb and fading bruises on one cheek. The bruises made Sam look more closely. John's jeans and shirt were spattered with mud, but some of it might have been blood, too.

Before Sam could ask anything, Dean moved past him. John stepped forward to meet Dean and a second later the two men were hugging. Sam saw John's face, a picture of relief and joy, his eyes closed as he hugged Dean close.

"Oh, my God, Dad," Dean babbled. "Are you _real_? Are you really alive?"

Sam figured that would do for both of them.

"Last time I checked," John answered dryly. He drew away from Dean, and his reluctance to break the embrace showed in his every movement. He looked at Sam.

Sam didn't hesitate. He moved forward and opened his arms to his father. John hugged him just as tightly as he had Dean. Sam didn't need to ask if this was real. He was certain. He hugged his dad back, hoping to say with his body all the things he hadn't been able to say when John died.

When they drew apart, though, John's expression was grim. "Son, we need to talk."

Sam saw Dean's smile vanish. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Demons. Near as I can tell this cabin is surrounded. They ain't showing themselves but we - " he nodded toward David, " - made at least ten."

Damn it. The news wasn't much of a surprise, but still...damn it! "How are they deployed?" Sam asked. He expected his dad to dismiss the question, but John answered at once.

"Six fixed positions roughly surrounding the cabin. From what we saw we estimate three or more per position."

Eighteen demons, then. "In other words," Sam summarised, "we're in trouble."

"We seem to be safe as long as we're in the cabin," Ellen said, though Sam knew that wasn't quite true. "So sit yourselves down and eat." She offered Sam a plate.

Sam looked at the contents and grinned. "You made pancakes? How?"

Ellen gave him a knowing look. "My grandma taught me how to make a decent meal out of almost nothing. Nothing's all they had in the thirties. No sense facing battle on an empty stomach, boys."

Dean grinned at her. "Yes, ma'am," he said cheekily.

"Sammy?" John prompted, nodding toward the door.

When John said, _We need to talk_, Sam hadn't thought he meant alone. Why would Dad want to talk to him without Dean? Especially now, after everything Dean had been through. There was only one way to find out. Sam accepted a mug of coffee from Ellen and followed John out of the cabin.

"What's up, Dad?" he asked, unable to keep the suspicion from his voice.

"I need to tell you some things."

"Me? Not Dean?"

"I think you should decide how much of this your brother needs to know." John sat down on the cabin steps, almost exactly where Dean had been sitting the morning before.

"Are you asking me to keep secrets from Dean?" Sam sat down beside him, setting his plate and coffee between them.

"No, Sammy. I'm not telling you to keep a secret. You and Dean know each other far better than I know you right now. You decide what to tell him. Or not."

"About what?"

"Last night we saved Dean because he's family. I didn't need any more reason than that and I'm sure you didn't. But David brought me back to save him for another reason. I guess you could call it a prophecy.”

Sam froze, the coffee mug halfway to his lips. "A prophecy about Dean?"

John said, slowly, "If Dean dies this week, if Dean goes to Hell, in twenty years so will the world. Literally."

Sam felt cold. "You believe that?"

John didn't answer.

"But we saved Dean," Sam pointed out. "So this prophecy..." He frowned. What did the prophecy _mean_? Was Dean supposed to do something to save the world?

John nodded. "You were always quick to figure out the right questions. You know there's a war going on?"

Sam narrowed his eyes. "You could say I've noticed," he spat bitterly. "We're the ones who've been fighting it!"

John raised a hand in a _peace_ gesture. "Alright, son, I didn't mean to rile you."

"It's not a war, though," Sam added. "I mean, a war has leaders, objectives and strategies."

"You don't see that here?" John asked, his tone interested.

Sam sipped his coffee. "Not even close. Lilith has followers but there are a lot of demons out there on no one's side. They escaped from Hell and they're just..." he shrugged, "...having a party. It's chaos out there because that's the way they like it. And on our side...well, you know what hunters are like." Sam thought, but didn't say, _Half of them think I'm the anti-Christ, thanks to Gordon._ Though none of the others had Gordon Walker's special obsession, Sam had found himself hunted more than once since he killed that crazy son of a bitch. Sam met his father's eyes. "The truth is, if Lilith gets organised, we're toast."

"That depends on her plan," John disagreed. "Do you know it?"

"Long term? No. Right now killing me seems to be top of her list."

John was silent for a moment. "That's actually good news," he said eventually. "It makes some of her moves predictable."

"Thanks!" Sam burst out sarcastically. _Feel the love in that statement!_

"You know what I meant."

Sam turned to John. "Whatever it is, just spit it out, Dad."

"Last night," John said, "you asked if I was prepared to kill you. How do you feel this morning?"

_About you killing me?_ Sam frowned. The moment Dad said it he felt that pulse of power in his blood again, a genie refusing to get back in the bottle. What did it mean? "You told Dean once that he might have to kill me," Sam answered.

"Yes," John said. "I did." He didn't look at Sam as he spoke. He sat on the cabin steps, his hands clasped together between his knees, the knuckles white. "I think you know why, son. The yellow-eyed demon was still after you then. But he's dead now. Sammy, I tried to tell you last night: _what_ you are is not _who_ you are. You're human, no matter what he did to you or what powers you have. That means you have choices."

Sam stared out over the landscape. The night's storm had left the grass greener and the sky bluer than before. The lake below them was a perfect mirror reflecting snow-capped mountains and azure sky. Sam didn't see the beauty. He saw the places along the tree-line where the scrub was thick enough to conceal an enemy force. He saw the huge fallen tree at the edge of the lake: large enough to conceal a boat from view. He saw the track curving away from the cabin and all the danger spots they would have to pass on the way out.

The world was shiny and new because Dean was alive and free.

The world was more a threatening place than ever.

"I don't see many choices," Sam answered. "Lilith and her demons will hunt me until I'm dead. I can't choose to stay out of it. I can't even choose who to fight."

Unexpectedly, he felt the warmth of John's hand on his arm and looked up to meet John's understanding eyes.

"You've had a rough time, haven't you?" John said softly. "It took me twenty years to get as tired as you sound." There was no judgement in his words, only empathy.

Sam felt tears sting his eyes and blinked them back, angry with himself. "Dean sold his soul, Dad! He did it because I died and I died because - "

"Because _I_ betrayed you to Azazel," John interrupted.

Sam stared at him. No. That couldn't be true. He tried to speak but no sound came out. Dad? Dad betrayed him? To the demon that killed his mother? _Dad_ was responsible for the Hell he and Dean had been going through?

John withdrew his hand. He met Sam's eyes briefly, enough to confirm his words, then he turned away. "I want you to understand this, son. I'm not asking for your forgiveness, only for you to hear me out." He fell silent, looking down at the cabin steps. When Sam made no reply, he went on. "When Dean was dying, I considered myself responsible. I think you blamed me, too. The demon used me to get to you both. It used my body to hurt Dean..."

"Dad, you were possessed! It wasn't your fault."

"Trading my soul wasn't the plan. I thought the Colt... But the demon knew how desperate I was. When I said I was willing to make a deal, he knew I would pay any price. Even my soul." John met Sam's eyes again. "And if I had understood what that son of a bitch really wanted from me, if I'd known what selling my soul would lead to, I would have let Dean die in that hospital. Because what he wanted from me, was _you_."

"You expect me to believe you didn't know that? Come on, Dad."

"All I expect is you to hear me out, Sam. Of course I knew what the demon planned for you. I hoped that warning Dean would protect you. I knew you boys would figure out the demon was involved in my death and I thought that, too, would protect you. But I didn't understand what Hell is. It's..."

"I know," Sam interrupted, not wanting to hear it. Meg's description came back to him and he repeated her words aloud, "_It's a prison, made of bone and flesh and blood and fear_."

"That's part of it," John agreed. "There are no secrets in Hell, Sam. It's impossible to hide anything, from yourself or from them. The demon wanted me in Hell so he would know everything I knew. Who you are. Your loves, your weaknesses. I had no choice, Sam. I gave it all up."

The real meaning of John's words came clear and Sam felt physically sick. "Because of you, he knew that I'd do anything for Dean, and him for me. He set me up to fail in Cold Oak. To die, so Dean would..."

"I believe it started before that. I don't know the details, but this wasn't the first crossroads deal Dean made, was it?"

"Dean trapped the demon to save someone's life, but - "

"You see, when you make a deal with a demon, you give it power over you. Dean probably thought he was getting away with it but that deal made him vulnerable, open to manipulation by the same demon, when he lost _you_. Azazel wouldn't have let you stay dead, Sam, no matter what he claimed. You were bait for the trap, then Dean became the same for you."

"I figured that out," Sam said resentfully. "I didn't know it was your doing."

"You see why I needed to tell you this alone?"

Because Dean couldn't know about this. He would never be able to handle it. "I see. Yeah."

"Azazel wasn't the only one who came to me in Hell. Someone else forced me to reveal things about you."

Oh. Suddenly a lot of other things fell into place. "Ruby," Sam said. "That's what you meant when you said you were going to repay her for something."

"Ruby. And I meant what I said to her. She expects you to fulfil the demon's plan for you."

Sam shook his head at once. "No. No, you're wrong about that." Ruby wanted him to become...something. Yes, Sam knew that. She had an agenda. But it wasn't about leading some dumb demon army. She'd been helping him fight _against_ the demons.

John looked sceptical, but he didn't argue. Sam thought that was a first. "Tell me what happened in Monument," John said.

The change of subject threw Sam for a moment. He answered, "Lilith showed up looking for us. She killed - "

"No, son," John interrupted. "I want to know what happened to you and Dean. I already heard Ruby's version of events. I'd like to hear yours."

So Sam told him. Henrickson and the FBI. The demons surrounding the small police station. Ruby's plan to sacrifice an innocent girl to kill every demon in the area. The girl in question, apparently willing. Dean's insistence that they find another way. Their plan, the battle and the mass exorcism. Then Lilith, cleaning up the mess.

When Sam fell silent, he found his dad watching him closely. Too closely: the scrutiny was enough to make Sam uncomfortable.

"What?" he demanded.

"One question, Sam, Truth, okay?"

"Alright."

"Would you really have sacrificed that girl, if Dean hadn't stopped you?"

It was a question Sam had asked himself a lot since that night. He shrugged. "I don't know. I think yes. It seemed like we were out of options."

"And Dean gave you a reasonable alternative, so you went with that?"

"Yeah. But it got everyone killed anyway."

"No, Sam. From what you said, the first demon put out the word that you were there. Lilith already knew. You're not to blame for what she did."

"But...?" Sam began, then stopped. Dad was right. Ruby's plan had been to kill all of the demons surrounding the building. Lilith would certainly have noticed a demon holocaust like that.

John smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. "No 'but', Sam. No criticism. I wasn't sure before, but I am now. You're ready."

***

John almost smiled at Sam's surprise. It was true that Sam had borne the brunt of John's criticism rather more than his brother. When had Sammy gone from being his pampered baby to being a rebellious brat who questioned John's every ruling? John couldn't remember, not exactly, but it was before Sam was old enough for him to label it teenage angst. By the time Sam hit his teens, their battles had become a habit for both of them, a habit they never managed to break.

Could he break the habit now? John didn't know.

But his little Sammy was no longer a boy. Truthfully, he hadn't been a boy for many years. He was a man, now. While they talked, John could see something lurking behind Sam's eyes and knew that the power he had released the night before was still there. They could deal with that when the time came. It might make Sam something more than a man; it couldn't make him less human. John believed it because he _had_ to believe it. Anything else was unthinkable.

John watched his son carefully as Sam told his story. He saw every emotion that crossed Sam's face. He recognised the guilt Sam felt over the deaths of so many strangers, and the tough decision he had made and would forever second-guess. But there was more, more that Sam himself didn't recognise: how skilfully he had improvised in circumstances that would have made most men, even most hunters, hesitate; how naturally Sam took charge and how easily others, even an FBI agent, followed him; that Sam hadn't balked at that tough choice, indeed he accepted it as a decision _he_ had to make. He weighed the options and made a call. John could not have been more proud of Sam.

"No 'but', Sam," he assured him. "No criticism. I wasn't sure before, but I am now. You're ready."

Sam was leaning back against the rail, his empty plate balanced on one knee. The breeze caught his hair and Sam raised a hand to brush his bangs out of his eyes. His frown deepened as he met John's eyes. "Ready for _what_?" he demanded, his voice now heavy with suspicion.

John returned his look steadily. "To lead this fight, Sam."

"_Lead_ it?" Sam repeated. He sounded scared.

He should have outgrown that fear by now, John thought. "I told you a minute ago that you have choices. Avoiding this war isn't one of them."

Sam nodded grimly. "I know I have to kill Lilith."

Straight to the essentials. John was grateful for that, as it allowed him to be equally blunt. "The demon planned for you to lead his army. You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah." The single word held a great deal of bitterness.

"He groomed you for that role, Sam. He enhanced your abilities to give you the power to lead that army. To _lead_, Sam, not simply to fight."

"What - what are you saying?"

"None of this will be easy. I don't know if we can win. But you are the one meant to fight this fight."

There was a great deal that John could not say. He suspected almost from the beginning that Sam was the real target of whatever killed Mary. Over the years John learned the truth in bits and pieces. When he first heard rumours of a future demonic army, Sam was twelve years old. That was the day John first faced the possibility that he might have to kill his own son. The thought was so terrible it forced John to consider other things, other ways. He raised his boys as hunters in the hope Sam would be armed against the demon when the time came.

Sam was shaking his head. "No. Dad, no."

"Sam, I never wanted this life for you. No father would want this for his children. I tried to prepare you both for this war because I knew you couldn't avoid it. I always expected you to mind my orders - " John saw Sam react. "Yes, Sam, I know you hated it. Did you ever ask yourself why?"

"Why you ordered us around like kids?"

"No, why you could never take orders. Sam, you _were_ kids."

"I hated it because...you didn't trust us. Me."

John didn't think that was the real reason. It had more to do with Sam's respect for him. John knew he'd lost that respect somewhere along the way and Sam had inherited John's own stubborn streak. He wasn't very forgiving.

"You hated it because you're not a follower. You were born to lead, Sam. That's what you have to do now."

"You say that like there's an army out there waiting for me. Who's going to follow _me_, Dad?"

John smiled, "Dean will, for one. Sounds like he already is. Sam, he's the person you trust the most. He'll stop you crossing lines, the way he did in Monument, but he's also a hell of a good soldier."

"I don't give Dean orders. He's my brother. And two of us against Lilith and a hundred demons? That's not an army, Dad. That's just our life."

"Two of you is where you start, Sam. There are others who will follow you. Bobby will, I'm sure." He met Sam's eyes steadily. "So will I. And Ellen has contacts - "

Sam laughed. "You'll take _my_ orders? What have you done with my dad?"

"I'm serious, Sam." John kept eye contact, begging Sam to believe him. "I'm not promising it'll be easy for me, or that we won't end up fighting again at some point. But I do know how to take orders as well as give them." He stood, walking a few steps down to the grass. "Think about it, son. Azazel expected you to lead his army. It stands to reason that leadership would have included taking care of Azazel's rivals. The power to defeat Lilith, and any other demon who tries to fill those shoes, is within you, Sam."

Sam's eyes went very wide. He was quiet for a moment. "Maybe you're right. But, Dad, if I do this - and I'm not saying I will - you _have_ to trust me to do it."

John nodded. "You think I can't." He understood Sam's doubts. John shared many of them. It _wouldn't_ be easy to take orders after so many years of relying only on himself. He wasn't even certain this was the right thing to do, but it was the only thing that made sense of David's prophecy.

"I think you _won't_. Dad, if I do this, I'll have Ruby on the team, too."

John's breath stopped in his throat. "Sam, no. You can't really believe you can trust her?"

"She's a demon. I know. She kills without remorse and doesn't give a damn about innocents caught in the crossfire. She also saved my life and Dean's more than once when she didn't have to. She's earned the benefit of the doubt from me." Sam looked at John, frowning. "But that's not the point. The point is you don't trust my judgement."

John considered that. Sam was right. Whatever John's opinion of Ruby, if he trusted Sam, this was the time he had to show it. But...Ruby?

He took a deep breath. "Alright, son. Where Ruby's concerned, I have a grudge. I'll admit that could cloud my judgement, but it doesn't change what she is."

"I know what she is. It's not too far from what I am, now."

_Oh, God..._ "Sam, that's not - "

"Yes, it is." Sam made an abrupt gesture as if dismissing the issue. "Where are they? I see the group at two o'clock."

John took the question to mean _discussion closed_. "Another at eleven," he reported. “Third further down the track. Two in positions you can't see from here."

"And the last?"

"Far side of the lake."

"Then they're only watching. They're not close enough for an assault."

"Don't be too sure of that," John warned.

"I _am_ sure," Sam disagreed. "Demons can use spells from a distance but their own powers have limited range. So why the Custer routine?"

"You've got that backward," John corrected him.

"Shut up, I'm thinking."

John shut up.

Sam closed his eyes, lifting his face as if to catch the sun. He was silent for a long moment. "She's not out there," he said finally. They're just cannon fodder."

John stared at Sam. "How can you be sure?" he asked.

Sam grimaced. "Since last night, I can't turn it off. It's easier if I..." he hesitated, searching for the words. "It's like a pressure valve, you know? Better to let some of the steam escape than have it explode."

The comparison didn't make John any happier. "Son, are you...okay?"

Sam looked at him, then, his mouth twisted in a bitter smile. "It's a bit late to be asking me that, isn't it? Give me Ruby's knife."

"What are you going to do?" John asked. For the first time, he was truly worried.

"Nothing drastic. I just want to talk to her. She wants the knife back, so if I have it, she'll come."

***

Sam waited for his father to close the cabin door behind him. He expected John to watch. John had always run his family like a military unit and, no matter what he said, Sam didn't believe he could give up control or command easily.

The day before, Sam had a plan to go after Lilith alone. Today, he needed a new plan.

Dad really thought Sam could lead this fight. Sam already knew he couldn't avoid the battle, but leading others was something else entirely. If he did this, he would be responsible for their lives. It felt like a real, physical weight settling on his shoulders.

Sam walked down the cabin steps until he stood outside the cabin's magical protections. The grass was soft beneath his boots; the air still cool from the night's rain.

He touched the hilt of Ruby's knife in his belt. "Ruby," he said aloud. He spoke softly, confident she would hear if she wanted to.

"You called?"

Sam whirled around. Ruby sat on the hood of the Impala, posed like a _Playboy_ centrefold except she was fully dressed: she lounged back on the car with her legs apart, one high-heeled boot hooked into the chrome.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Better not scratch the fender. Dean will kill you slowly."

"What do you want, Sam?" Ruby slid gracefully down from the car and came toward him.

"That spell you were going to use in Monument. Can you teach me how to do it?"

Ruby's mouth dropped open, her eyes flew wide. He had managed to surprise her. Wow: there really was a first time for everything.

"Well," Sam pressed, "can you?"

She shook her head firmly. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because it won't do you any good. I don't see any virgins around here."

Sam smiled, and he knew it didn't reach his eyes. It was a cold smile, "I don't need the spell for this. I might need it later." An idea was beginning to form at the back of his mind. It was pretty extreme. But it just might make the difference in this war.

Ruby looked around them pointedly, picking out each place where Lilith's demons were hiding. "Seems to me you've got your work cut out," she suggested.

"Which is why I don't have time to dick around with you. Will you teach me the spell, or not?"

Ruby crossed her arms stubbornly. "Sam, that's a witch's spell. Do you want to sell your soul for it? Because I'm _not_ in the market."

It would only work for a witch? Sam hadn't counted on that. "Wait a moment. Witches get their power from demons, right?"

Ruby nodded curtly. "And the demon gets the witch's soul in exchange. Usually a whole lot more, too."

Sam pressed on. "But _my_ power comes from a demon, too. Wouldn't that mean the spell should work for me?"

He had surprised her again. Ruby stared at him for an instant before she covered the expression with her usual sardonic smile. "It might. I can't guarantee it." She looked Sam up and down. "Alright. If you think you've got the stones to pull it off this time, I'll show you the spell. But I want something in exchange."

Sam had expected that. Ruby was the only demon Sam could consider dealing with, but although he trusted her to an extent, she was still a demon. A demon always had to get the better of any bargain. They always ask more than you're really willing to pay: that was why Dean only got a year to live when he made his deal. If Ruby's price was reasonable, Sam would pay it. He was afraid she would ask for his dad. John hadn't shared the details of what happened between them, but Sam knew his dad and demons. He knew how ruthless John could be.

"You look scared, Sammy. What's wrong? Afraid I want your soul after all?" Ruby raised a hand as if to touch him; Sam backed off a step, avoiding her touch.

"No. What _do_ you want?"

"I want my knife. And I want it now. _Before_ we talk about the spell."

Sam let out the breath he had been holding. He took the knife from his belt, flipped it over in his hand and offered it to her, hilt first. "It's yours."

Ruby took the knife from him. "Alright, Sam. You've got a deal."


	11. Chapter 11

#### Two Weeks Later

John laid down the razor and splashed cold water on his face to clean off the last of the shaving foam. He straightened, water dripping from his face and running down his neck. He liked what he saw in the mirror. He looked good for a man who had been dead for two years. He wore nothing but his underpants, and the mirror showed him every scar, every reminder of battles lost and won. John carried a lot of wear and tear but he'd _earned_ every scar.

He slid the underpants off and threw them into the laundry with the rest of his clothing. He was about to step into the shower when Ellen tapped on the door and opened it.

She peered in. "Hey. You didn't shower yet?" She closed the door behind her.

"I decided to shave first," John explained.

"I noticed." Ellen raised a hand to cup his newly-smooth cheek. "Looks good on you."

John felt his cock swell, reacting to her touch, but he tried to ignore it. "Any luck?" he asked her. She'd come in to talk business, he assumed.

"Olsen said he'll show up. If he comes, so will King. That makes twenty."

"That's fantastic!" John's face split into a wide grin. Twenty hunters willing to meet. It was ten more than he'd expected.

"Don't get too excited," Ellen cautioned. "Most of them won't stick around. You know that."

If the war out there was as bad as John believed, enough would stick around. The difficult part would be persuading them to trust Sam. Most of Ellen's contacts had heard Gordon Walker's version of what Sam was. Some of them knew Walker for the fool he was. Unfortunately Walker's case was strengthened by the fact that both he and Kubrick died hunting Sam.

John slid his hands around Ellen's waist, gathering the coarse cloth of her shirt in his hands and drawing her closer to him. "You're right. Some won't be willing to follow anyone, end-of-the-world or not. And some are probably coming with plans to take a shot at Sammy. None of us thought this would be easy." He pulled the shirt slowly out of her pants. "But it's a beginning. Now...want to take a shower?"

Ellen raised her face to kiss him. "I thought you'd never ask," she murmured against his mouth.

John began to unbutton her pants. In the morning, they would head out to rejoin the boys at Bobby's house. For this night, John wanted to forget it all. Forget the war, forget the nagging fear that he was wrong about Sam, forget the nightmares of Hell that disturbed his nights. He undressed Ellen quickly and drew her into the shower. He turned the dial to hot and steam billowed around them with the water.

Ellen's bathroom was the only room in her apartment that must have been decorated by a woman. The walls were covered with pale pink tiles and a pattern of roses. The ceramics were white, the shower cubicle made of glass etched with a pattern of vines. The cubicle was big enough for two people to fit comfortably; perhaps the woman who designed the bathroom enjoyed sharing the shower, too.

Ellen took the soap and moved behind John, reaching up to spread lather over his shoulders. She rubbed the soap into his skin, smooth and warm as oil. "God, you're tense, John. What's wrong?" Her strong fingers found the knots in his muscles.

John sighed, enjoying her touch. But she was right about his tension. "I don't feel prepared. All this research..."

Ellen grasped his shoulders and made him turn around to face her. "You've got to be joking, John. You've been back from the _dead_ less than three weeks. In that time you've fought demons, saved Dean from Hell, spent a week damn near living in Lincoln library and you even found time for a hunt! You're doing as much as you can."

"It's not enough." That was John's fear: no matter what, they couldn't be prepared for what was coming. As for that hunt, it was barely worth mentioning. It was just something he ran across while he was cataloguing the demonic omens across the country. As Ellen had told him, with so many demons out there sometimes the lesser supernatural critters were being missed. So when John found the obituaries - six accidents in six months along the same stretch of road - he checked it out. It was barely two days work to identify the spirit, open up the grave and salt and burn the contents. Simple.

"It's more than enough," Ellen argued. "I know you think you're missing something, John, but you were out of action for two years."

"Then you think I _am_ missing something?" John asked worriedly.

Ellen ran her soapy hands up his chest. "No, I don't. I think you're asking too much of yourself. Your boys aren't children any more. You don't have to carry it alone." Her hands slid down, over his stomach and further down to his hips. John expected a more intimate touch, but it didn't come. Instead Ellen leaned back into the jet of water, holding his hips for balance, letting water flow over her face and hair, down her neck to form a cascade over her breasts. She shook her head as she straightened up to flip her hair out of her eyes. "Honestly, John? I think your trouble is you can't handle giving up control to someone else. To Sam."

John narrowed his eyes at her. She wasn't entirely wrong: he was used to being in charge, but that wasn't the problem. It wasn't Sam's plan for a meeting that John had issues with. It was the lack of information. John was used to going into a hunt with nothing but an obit and a tentative lead, but this wasn't a hunt. It was war. The rules were different.

Could a war even _have_ rules when the enemy was Hell itself?

"You callin' me a control freak?" John growled, mock-angry.

Ellen smiled. "If the name fits..."

John moved quickly, closing the small distance between their bodies. Ellen stepped back automatically but there was nowhere for her to go. He pinned her to the wall with his body, holding her wrists in his hands and raising her arms above their heads. John kept his eyes on her face, watching for any sign of objection, but he saw her colour rise and knew she was enjoying his show of strength. He brought her wrists together and found he could hold them both in one of his hands. It wasn't easy with all this water and soap making her skin slippery, and if she struggled she'd get free right away, but he _could_ hold her there. He pressed her captured arms into the tiles, careful not to hurt her. Though from the gleam in Ellen's eyes, she might enjoy that, too.

John kissed Ellen hard, using his lips and tongue to force her mouth open. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, tasting her moan of pleasure. He ran his tongue over the roof of her mouth. Ellen raised one leg and caressed his calf muscle with her foot, slowly up and down and up again. It was John's turn to moan and he ran his fingertips over her neck, and along her collarbone. Still holding her against the wall, he followed his hand's caress with his mouth, nibbling at her neck, licking up the water droplets gathered on her skin and tasting the faint residue of soap.

"John," Ellen whispered, encouraging.

John smiled and slid his hand between her legs, cupping the triangle of her hair, combing his fingers through the curls. Ellen moaned and used her leg to draw him closer to her body. John parted her warm folds with his fingers. He found her clit and rubbed gently, not sure if she was ready yet.

She was. Ellen cried out when he touched her there and he felt a rush of warmth. He circled her small, hard clit with his fingers and she whispered his name again. He loved sex. He loved the heat of it, the sounds and smells, the taste of sex on his tongue. He loved feeling Ellen like this, abandoning herself to pleasure. It was such a rush to have a woman fall apart in his arms and to know his hands, or mouth, or cock had done that to her. Ellen strained against his hold as John slid his fingers inside her. She tried to kiss him but he kept his face just out of reach, looking into her eyes.

"John!" she breathed with that little high-pitched gasp in her voice that told him she was close.

"Come for me, baby," John commanded.

Ellen did just that. She cried out, thrusting herself against his hand. John released her wrists and caught her deftly around her waist as she fell into his body. Ellen wrapped her arms around him. Her nails raked his back and she bit into his shoulder, hard enough to bruise. John hissed at the pain but kissed her neck, feeling Ellen dissolve around him.

"Ellen," he murmured against her cheek. "Ellen, baby."

Her breathing was ragged and she didn't answer him in words. Her hand slid down his back, over his hip.

John drew back before she could touch his cock. He was _too_ ready. He wouldn't last if she touched him now, and he wanted this to last. "Let's finish this in bed," he suggested.

***

After, Ellen curled up against John's side. John lay on his back, stroking her still-damp hair. The week just past had been a perfect interlude, even with all the work they'd been doing. In a way, the loss of Jo made it more real, more intense for both of them. They were both reaching out to seize the moment while they could.

"John," Ellen murmured sleepily.

"Mm-hm?"

"When this is all over, what are you going to do?"

John rolled over to face her. "What makes you think it'll be over in my lifetime?" he asked. "This is war, my love. It's going to take a long time."

Ellen sighed. "I guess you're right." She fell silent, but it didn't seem like a comfortable silence.

John caressed the smooth mound of one of her breasts. "What's your real question, Ellen? You want to know if I'll quit fighting?"

"Maybe," she agreed, meaning, John guessed, that it wasn't exactly what she wanted to ask, but it would do.

"I'm in this to keep my boys safe," John answered honestly. "They've both proven they don't need me any more. At least, not as a protector. I have been thinking about the future...now I have one."

"What about us?"

"Us?" He kissed the tip of her nose gently.

"Don't be a dick, John."

He sighed. "I love you, Ellen. I did then and I still do."

She smiled.

"I don't want to lose you. I hope we can find a way to live together. But if you're asking what I think you are...well, I'm not gonna be shopping for rings."

Ellen rested her head on his shoulder, a gesture that hid her face from him. "I'm just not Mary, am I?" she sighed.

"No, you're not. But that's not it, Ellen. Really, it isn't."

"Then...?"

"I'm not like Bill, sweetheart." He stroked her hair. "I can never be him."

"Who said I wanted you to be?"

"Listen. You and Bill were happy because you both wanted the same thing out of your marriage. But taking vows means something different to me. I think I can tolerate my girl looking elsewhere from time to time, but I can't accept that in my wife."

Ellen drew away from him. "You don't believe I can be faithful." She sounded offended.

"I don't believe you'd be happy if you _had_ to be," he clarified. "Ellen, I do love you. I want you to be happy."

She smiled again. "I am."

"Then go to sleep. We've got a long journey in the morning."

She reached out and turned off the light.

Some time later, when John was drifting on the edge of sleep, Ellen apparently decided she needed the last word.

"John?"

"Yeah?" he mumbled.

"You're still a control freak."

***

"My dad told me," Sam announced, a challenge in his voice, "you claimed to be like me."

David shook his head. "No, Sam. Not like you. I told John I am the same thing you are: a psychic and last of my generation. But _like_ you...no. You are far more powerful than I, and most of your power comes from - " he broke off abruptly.

They were at Bobby's, sharing barbeque and beer. Dean and Sam had been there since they left Colorado, since they needed a base they could protect as they had the cabin and most of it was already in place for Bobby. David had just rejoined them: he, like Ellen, had been out recruiting. The meeting, if that wasn't too optimistic a name for it, was set for three days hence.

Sam scowled at David. "You can say it. Dean and Bobby have a right to know. My power comes from what the demon did to me."

David disagreed again. "Your power comes from _Hell_. Azazel gave you the ability to channel that power, but the source is outside you. I suspect that's why Lilith sees you as a rival. You're both working off the same battery, so to speak."

"So why don't you have the same power, if we're both the same thing?"

"I do not have your conduit. Demons are immortal, Sam. The oldest of them plan in millennia, not months or years. Azazel built his scheme slowly. He could afford to throw away a whole generation of psychics, or two or three generations because there is always another on the way. He waited centuries for someone like you, and when you came along he made you his perfect vessel..." David smiled at Dean, "and then your brother brought an abrupt end to his great scheme."

"Yeah, I'm broken up about that," Dean drawled.

"So you're saying every generation is different?" Sam leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"Well, of course. Sam, have you not figured out what we are? Have you found the past generations?"

There was a coil of excitement in Sam's stomach, like the breathless feeling at the top of a rollercoaster right before it plunges downward. Something important was about to happen, he knew it. He sipped his beer to cover his eagerness. "I concentrated on finding the others like me, those my age, I mean. I guess I would have looked into the past eventually, but Dean..." he stopped. The truth was Sam hadn't realised the obvious: that there were generations of psychic kids before him, until Azazel mentioned it. And then Dean's deal wiped all that from his mind. It hadn't seemed important any more.

"Then you've got some catching up to do," David told him. "Sam, it is important you understand this. The demon did not create us, nor those like us. There have been generations like yours going so far back they're more myth than history. There are usually three generations born in each century. You can find them in the legends of cultures all over the world."

Dean set his bottle down with a _thunk_. "You're kidding, right? I've read a lot of folklore, dude. I'd have noticed."

"You need to know where to seek. They are the great heroes who attracted the attention of the gods, or who fought the gods. Cú Chulainn in Ireland, Achilles in Greece: that's just two. But I think the most famous legend, one I'm sure you'll have heard about, is from England." David looked at Sam. "The powers of each generation are strongest when we work together. I think that's why Azazel set the children against each other: together they would have been stronger than he ever was."

A famous legend from England? Sam swallowed. If David was really talking about Merlin...that was a bit too much to take in.

Refusing to take the bait, Sam answered, "A bit late to tell me now. The rest of my generation are gone." _Gone_. What a careful euphemism. Dead. Slaughtered.

"But there will be another, Sam. The next generation is already born, don't you see? They will be the first for a thousand years to grow up free of Azazel's influence."

Sam found he was squeezing his beer bottle so hard his knuckles were white. He wondered idly if he was strong enough to break it. Not with the strength of his muscles, perhaps, but just the tiniest spark of power...

"Sam!" Dean said sharply. "You listenin'?"

Carefully, Sam unclenched his fist from around the bottle. "I was just thinking about Rosie," he said quietly.

Bobby set another four beers on the table between them. "Who's Rosie?" he asked, claiming a bottle.

Sam explained. "In Salvation, just before the demons took Dad, Dean and I saved a woman from being burned by the demon. Rosie was her daughter." Monica, that was her name. How had she described the baby? _She never cries. She just stares at everybody. Sometimes she looks at you and I swear it's like she's reading your mind._ Sam looked at David, then to Bobby and finally Dean. "She'll be next. After Lilith kills me, she'll go after the children. God, Dean, they're babies. Rosie...she's not even three years old."

Sam could see it clearly. It wasn't a vision, but knowledge as certain as his own name. Lilith would take those children. She would use them as ruthlessly as Azazel planned to use Sam, and those she couldn't use would die. Or worse. Sam remembered Ava again: a normal, happy girl, looking forward to her wedding...a manipulative murderess driven insane by months of Azazel's torment.

No. Never again. It would not happen to another generation.

Sam watched understanding fill Dean's face. Back in Salvation, Dean had been determined to save at least this family from the demon. They saved Monica and even though _nothing_ after that worked out the way they'd planned, saving her meant a lot to both of them. They had spared this one family from the Hell visited on their own lives. Now this: the certainty that it would never be over for Rosie's family.

Dean raised his eyes to Sam, distress becoming determination. "We've got to stop her, Sam. No matter what."

***

John gazed at the map for a long time before picking up the phone.

The pattern was clear. It was so obvious now he saw it he couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it before. His instinct was to tear up the research and keep what he knew to himself. It was the habit of twenty years: knowledge shared could put others in danger. Yet he had promised his boys he would share anything important...and this was most certainly important.

He looked at the phone in his hand and dialled Sam's number.

Sam answered so quickly John thought he must have been staring at the phone. "Hey, Ellen."

"It's me, Sammy."

"Oh. Sorry, I'm used to Ellen's number. What's up? Are you still coming today?"

"Yes." John started to roll up the map. "We might be a bit later than we planned, but we'll be there. Sam, the reason I'm calling...I think I know where Lilith is."

Sam drew a sharp breath. "How do you know?"

Interesting that _how_ was Sam's first question and not _where_. "I've been tracking the omens. Storms and weather anomalies, cattle deaths..."

"Yes, but Dad, there are omens showing up everywhere," Sam objected.

"Let me finish, Sam. Alongside the omens there are reports of demonic activity: disappearances, murders, spikes of violent crime. That sort of thing. I've been plotting everything on a map."

"And?"

"And there's only one place where the demonic omens are thick but there are no reports of demonic activity. Southern Georgia. She's there, Sam."

There was silence on the other end of the line.

"Sammy?" John prompted.

"I'm here. Just thinking. It's good news, Dad."

But it brings the fight closer. John understood Sam's hesitation. The boy was staring down at his own death. The thought twisted John's stomach painfully.

"We'll see you soon, son," he said.

"Yeah. Thanks, Dad." Sam hung up the phone.

***

There was a sense of déja-vu as John packed his research into Ellen's Jeep. It was only weeks before that they had set out together for this same journey - to Bobby's place - but it seemed like a lifetime ago. In a way, it was. So much had happened in a few short weeks.

John enjoyed driving. He liked the lonely roads between towns, the huge fields of corn with nothing but the occasional barn or farmhouse to break up the monotony of the landscape. The Jeep handled well and Ellen was good company on the road. They kept the radio on low and Ellen talked about Jo, sharing happy memories. John let her talk. If it helped Ellen come to terms with her loss, he could listen.

They were not far across the state line into South Dakota when one of the front tyres blew out. John felt the Jeep lurch beneath him in the same instant he heard the explosion. He hit the brakes and for a moment the Jeep span out of control. John wrestled the wheel around as the Jeep squealed to a stop at the edge of the road, the engine still purring.

John swore.

Ellen reached for the door. "The spare is good, John," she began.

The radio crackled loudly and the Jeep's engine died. John hadn't touched the ignition.

"It won't take long to..." Ellen went on as if nothing happened, beginning to open her door.

John grabbed her arm. "Ellen, no."

The radio could have been just a poor signal. The engine dying might just mean the Jeep was getting old, but John didn't think so. Damn it, he should have made time to service the Jeep himself; then he would know. Too late.

John looked around. They were surrounded by cornfields on both sides and the plants were so thick almost anything could be hiding in there. He saw movement in the corn that could have been the wind.

"John?" Ellen asked, her hand still on the door release.

"I don't see anything," John admitted. He drew the gun from his belt. "But I'm not taking any chances. Stay inside, Ellen. The Jeep is still safe from demons."

"Like her?"

John's head snapped around to look at the road.

A young girl stood in the road, a short distance from the Jeep. She was perhaps ten years old, dark-haired and pretty, wearing a white party dress. Even if John couldn't see the demon inside her, he would have known. A dress like that in the middle of a cornfield?

John holstered the gun; it would be useless. "We're safe inside," he reminded Ellen.

To their right, the corn parted and another demon appeared, then another behind them and more until the Jeep was surrounded. Seven of them in all.

"Safe?" Ellen said ironically.

_Shut up, I'm thinking._ John said it with a look. They were surrounded: nowhere to run. Exorcism wasn't an option: there were too many of them. Holy water? Most of it was in the back, out of reach, but there were a couple of bottles under the dash. Would it be enough? Holy water would hurt them but it wouldn't kill them. Nothing John had with him could kill them.

The child-demon gazed at them steadily. So far, that was all she was doing.

"Is that Lilith?" Ellen asked, fear evident in her voice.

"I don't know," John answered honestly. "The description fits. She's definitely a demon."

"Got that. Thanks," Ellen snapped. "Holy water?"

She was asking him for the plan, but John didn't have one. "Can't hurt," he answered. "First chance you get, Ellen, run. Head into the corn, go as far as you can and hide. Don't wait for me. Don't look back."

"But - "

"Ellen," he snapped. There was no time to debate it.

"Alright. I've got it."

John watched the demon (Lilith?) closely. She hadn't moved. What did she want? That she wanted them...or perhaps just John himself seemed obvious, but it left a lot of questions. If she wanted them dead, they had no chance.

The child demon raised a hand, her fingers spread wide as if to catch a ball. She locked eyes with John and slowly closed her hand.

The Jeep's suspension creaked as if a heavy weight were pressing down on it. A crack appeared in the windshield. Metal screamed and the roof above them began to buckle.

The demon slowly closed her hand.

She was going to crush the Jeep with them inside it!

Ellen reached up to the roof as if she could stop it with just her own strength. The crack in the windshield spread like a spiderweb.

They were out of options. "Get out of the car!" John snapped.

Ellen didn't hesitate. She shoved at her door but it was jammed. She kicked it hard and the door flew open. As Ellen slid down from the Jeep, John was grabbing for the holy water under the dash. Ellen wasn't carrying any.

"Ellen!" he cried. He threw the bottle at her. Ellen reached up to catch it and a demon flew at her from behind. The demon shoved Ellen to the ground before she touched the bottle. The bottle, still sealed tightly, fell to the floor. In the same instant, the windows of the Jeep exploded outward under the impossible pressure and the roof bucked above John, trapping him where he half-lay across the seats.

There was no time to get the second bottle. No time to do anything but slither out of the Jeep before he was crushed inside it. John hit the ground and reached for the fallen bottle. His fingertips actually touched it before some invisible force lifted his body upward. John flailed helplessly in the air then his back slammed into what was left of the Jeep. Pain shot through him. He tried to tear himself away but that demonic force held him in place. He looked for Ellen. She was on her knees, a demon holding a long knife to her throat. Ellen watched John, waiting for his cue, watching for her opportunity to make a break for it.

"John Winchester," the child-demon said. She stood before John and there was nothing childlike in her eyes. "I've waited _so_ long to meet you." She smiled, all sweetness and innocence but he knew it was a lie. "You skipped out of Hell before I had the pleasure," she added. She put a stress on the word _pleasure_ that no child would have used.

_Me? Why me? I thought you wanted Sam?_

Lilith answered him as if he'd spoken the thought aloud. "Oh, I do. You're going to make sure he comes right to me."


	12. Chapter 12

Dean paced the small confines of Bobby's back room, holding the cell phone to his ear while he met Sam's eyes angrily. "They should be here by now," he insisted. "Shit! Voicemail again!" He turned the phone off and rounded on Sam, spreading his hands in a gesture that clearly indicated he expected action right-the-hell-now.

"They're probably still on the road," Sam suggested. His tone was calm, but Dean could see his brother's frown deepening and knew Sam was worried, too. "Maybe they stopped for food and Dad left his phone in the car."

"Maybe. I'm still going after them. You with me?"

Sam nodded. "I'm not letting you go alone."

"Boys," Bobby interrupted from the doorway, "it's not safe out there."

The reminder made Dean hesitate; Bobby was right. The first thing they did when they got back to Bobby's two weeks before was strengthen the protections all around the house and junkyard. Bobby's place was now as thoroughly protected as their cabin had been; the demons might be looking for Sam but he was off the radar as long as they were inside Bobby's house.

Sam shrugged. "It's Dad, Bobby. Are you really gonna tell us not to go?"

Bobby shook his head. "I wouldn't dream of it. But be careful out there."

Dean nodded to let Bobby know he understood the warning, and headed for the door. He wasn't psychic, but he had a bad feeling about this. Dad wouldn't be late. Knowing what they were planning and after everything they'd been through, Dad wouldn't be late. If something went wrong, if they ran out of gas or something, Dad would have called.

Dean was firing up the Impala's engine before Sam reached the car.

Sam slid into the seat beside him and slammed the door. Dean pushed a tape into the stereo, turned up the volume and hit the gas. Dust flew up around the Impala as Dean accelerated toward the road.

"Just like old times," Sam commented.

Dean made an impatient noise. "Ain't you worried, Sam?"

"I agree it's strange that he's late, but..."

"But _what_?" Dean frowned, taking his eyes off the road to look at his brother.

"Well...he's with Ellen, Dean. Maybe they, you know, started out late."

"You mean maybe they were screwing? No, Sam. Not today." And that was all Dean wanted to say on that subject. Their father's relationship with Ellen weirded him out. It wasn't the thought of his dad having sex. It was Ellen. Hadn't she been married when they met? Wasn't her husband Dad's friend?

John had never tried to stifle Dean's sex life, but he _had_ laid down rules, and made it very clear he was willing to enforce them. Always use a condom. Don't talk about what we do. And never, ever screw another man's wife. Did Dad break his own rule? Why?

"Sam, can't you...what about your psychic thing?" Dean said it more to change the subject than because he had any real hope.

Sam looked uncomfortable. "I've been trying," he admitted.

"What? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I got nothing. Dean, that's _why_ I'm not worried. With all the wardings Bobby drew on the Jeep, I shouldn't be able to find them if they're on the road."

_Those wardings meant to keep demons away?_ Dean thought unhappily. This whole deal with Sam's powers had his head spinning. It was weird enough when it was just the "shining". Now, apparently, Sammy _lied_ to him for a whole year. He'd said it was over. No more weirdo visions. But what he'd done the night Dean's deal came due was way beyond visions. Sam faced down a _demon_. And he won.

Dean wouldn't allow himself to form the question, but it was there nonetheless. Was Sam some kind of demon? He wasn't possessed, certainly, but if all demons started out as people - as damned souls - then was it possible for a living human to become something that belonged in Hell...or _to_ Hell? A normal human _could_ become something else: they had all seen it in vampires, wendigos and other things.

Dean turned the music up loud enough to drown out his thoughts. Sammy was his brother. He was human. Dean wouldn't allow anything else to be true.

They were almost at the Nebraska border when Dean saw the wreck of the Jeep ahead. He recognised it instantly, despite the damage. And there _was_ damage. Fear clenched Dean's stomach as they drew closer and he slowed the Impala. The Jeep was half-blocking the road. It was upright, but the shattered glass, the damage to the roof and sides made it look as if the Jeep had rolled over. But for that to happen, they must have hit something. Dean could see no sign of another vehicle, nor a point of impact on the Jeep.

Dean parked the Impala and looked at Sam. "Call them," he ordered, reaching for the door. He climbed out of the car, gun in hand. He approached the Jeep cautiously, noting the gasoline still dripping from the tank. He was alert for anything, any sound or movement. One of the front tyres was flat. One door was partially open. There was no sign of blood inside or out and no bodies. That, at least, was good.

He walked around to the rear. If this was an accident, and they'd walked away from it, Dad would have taken the most important things out of the trunk. Dean couldn't get it open.

That was when he saw the scattering of sulphur beneath the Jeep. Dean swore, kneeling to gather the too-familiar dust onto his fingers.

From behind him, Sam called, "No answer. Just voicemail again."

Dean stood, holding up his hand for Sam to see. "Sulphur."

Sam paled. "Shit! Are you sure?"

Dean ignored the question and tried the driver's side door. The door wouldn't open but the window was broken. He covered his hand with his sleeve and cleared away the broken glass before reaching into the Jeep. The keys were still in the ignition.

He pulled the keys out and waved them at Sam. "Still think everything's okay, Jackass?"

***

"Are they dead?" Bobby asked cautiously.

"We can't be sure," Sam answered. "There was no sign of a fight, no blood. But no trail, either. Either they were taken or they left voluntarily, but - "

"All Dad's stuff was still in the trunk. They didn't just wander off, Sam!" Dean shouted it, anger plain in his face, in every movement of his body.

Sam held up his hands in a "peace" gesture. "It took both of us with crowbars to get the trunk open. If they were under attack, there wouldn't have been time for them to take anything. It's possible someone came by, gave them a ride. But with all the sulphur we found...I don't think that's what happened. I think they were taken."

"By who?" Bobby asked.

"That's obvious, ain't it?" Dean burst out.

Sam disagreed. "We can't assume it's her. What we did in Colorado must have been noticed by every demon out there and Dad's pissed off a lot of them in his day."

"He's not dead," Dean said firmly. "There was no body."

Sam agreed with Dean. If this was just some random demon attack, surely they would be dead? He turned to Bobby. "Bobby, is there any way we can find out if Lilith was there?"

Bobby hesitated. "No. Not unless you want to summon her." His expression made it clear how stupid he thought _that_ plan would be.

Sam didn't need the warning. Summon Lilith? Never. He spread out the map they had retrieved from the Jeep. "When Dad called me this morning, he said he thought Lilith was in south Georgia." He tapped the area on the map. John's marks all over the map: red for omens of demonic presence; blue for incidents he believed were demon activity, showed why he'd come to that conclusion.

Bobby looked at the map. "John always was good at this. Still, Georgia's pretty big. I'll check my sources, see if I can narrow it down."

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean answered quietly.

Sam leaned over the table, covering his face with both hands. He was tired, really, physically tired. "If it's her, we'll know soon enough."

"How do you figure that?" Bobby asked.

Sam stared down at the table top. "Because she wants _me_. If she has Dad..."

Dean interrupted harshly. "It's called a trap, Sam. I'm not about to let you walk into it the way Dad did."

Sam looked up then, meeting Dean's eyes. Did Dean not understand? If Lilith had Dad...what else could they do? Just leave him there? Casualty of war? Dean would never stand for that, and Sam couldn't do it. No matter his differences with John, he couldn't do it.

"We need a plan," Sam said.

Dean stood up, shoving himself away from the table. "No sacrificing virgins," he said, looking straight at Sam.

Sam felt his stomach turn into lead. Dean wasn't supposed to know...

Bobby looked at Dean as if waiting for the punchline and the blood drained from his face as he realised Dean was deadly serious. "Sacrifice _who_?" Bobby demanded, looking at Sam.

Sam scowled at Dean.

"What?" Dean snapped. "Did you think I didn't know you got that spell from her? You're not gonna do it, Sam. Not on my watch."

"I never intended to, Dean," Sam said quietly.

"Then why'd you want the spell?"

"For the same reason the government has nukes. If things get bad enough, I mean worse than we can even imagine right now, we might need it."

Dean turned away with an irritated shrug.

Bobby met Sam's eyes steadily. "You get more like your daddy every day, boy."

Sam returned his look. "I'd say thanks, but you don't mean it that way, do you?"

Bobby's expression was grim. "The thing about nukes, Sam, is the threat didn't mean a damned thing until _after_ we dropped two of 'em. Think about that before you make your plan."

***

Ellen woke with her head full of cotton candy. All she could see was a bright blur. She squeezed her eyes closed against the light and groaned. She felt cold, though she was fully dressed. She rolled on to her side and swallowed back a wave of nausea. Drugs. She had been drugged.

The memories came back in a rush and she sat up, adrenaline flooding her. The room swam and swirled and Ellen clamped one hand over her mouth, struggling not to throw up. She swallowed, hard a few more times then re-opened her eyes.

She was alone. There was no sign of John.

The last thing Ellen remembered was kneeling in the road surrounded by demons. Now she was lying on the lower rack of a set of bunk beds, gazing up at the mesh of the bunk above. The wall on her left was bare brick. She rolled carefully onto her side to get a look at the room. It was long and narrow, bare brick walls and a concrete floor. The ceiling was brick, too, curved like a tunnel. Two unshaded light bulbs dangled from the ceiling. At one end of the room was a door made of metal.

What the hell was this place? Underground, surely. Some kind of prison? But where? More importantly, where was John?

Ellen ran her hands through her hair and found the head injury: a lump on the back of her head, sticky-damp with her blood. Drugs _and_ concussion? Great. Just peachy. She looked for something to clean the wound, without much hope. There was nothing. Four bunk beds, each with blankets and pillows were the only things in the room. There was no water. Not even a bucket to piss in. Would demons care about such needs? She sighed, pushing the thought out of her mind, and slowly sat up so she could remove her shirt.

In the movies, when someone had to rip sheets to make a rope or something it was always easy. Ellen found herself weak, or perhaps the cloth of her shirt was stronger than she thought. She worked at it with her teeth until she had frayed the edge enough to tear it open. When she had a strip of cloth she wrapped it around her hand and patted gingerly at the head wound. It was painful, but there wasn't too much blood.

Only then did it occur to her to try the door. She mentally kicked herself and held onto the bed while she dragged herself to her feet. Her head hurt and she felt dizzy as she forced her body upright. She stumbled across to the wall - just a few steps - and leaned on the brick for support while she approached the door. It was made of steel, with rivets in two vertical lines. The door handle was just a knob. It didn't turn and when Ellen pushed at it the door didn't open. She tried again, pushing with all the strength left to her, but it refused to move. That wasn't really a surprise.

Ellen leaned back against the cool metal, shoving her hands into her pockets. She felt something in one pocket of her jeans and pulled it out. It was a small paper sachet of salt from some fast food joint. She couldn't help smiling. Salt...it would be useful if she had a hundred times as much.

_Where are you, John? Are you even alive?_

Several hours later, Ellen was going stir crazy. For the first time she heard a sound outside her prison. She moved quickly to stand beside the door with her back to the wall. It was a poor plan, but it was all she had.

The door didn't open, exactly: it slid to one side. Someone stumbled through the opening and fell right in front of her. _John! Oh, God..._ Ellen barely had time to register what happened before the door closed again - whoosh, clang and the clunk of a lock falling into place.

"John!" Ellen went to help him.

John was on all fours on the floor. He raised a hand without looking at her. "Don't!" The single word came out as a growl.

Ellen had been about to touch him. She backed off, puzzled. There was blood on the floor. She couldn't see where it had come from. "John...what happened?"

John raised his head to look at her and she saw bruises down one side of his face and blood still trickling from his mouth. One of his eyes was swollen shut. John said, "Pray."

_Oh. Of course._ He was afraid she was possessed. For a moment Ellen, who had never been much of a churchgoer and was never a Catholic, struggled to recall the Latin. Then it came to her, and she looked straight at him as she recited the prayer. "Pater noster..."

John joined her, holding her gaze as they completed the prayer together. As they reached the end, a look of incredible relief filled John's eyes. "Ellen," he whispered.

She went to him, then, crouching at his side to help him stand. John accepted the help, leaning on her heavily as she hauled him to his feet.

"John, where are we? What happened?"

"It's a house," he began, his voice still rough. "Huh. Mansion, more like. We're pretty deep under it. The place is crawling with demons."

"Are you alright? I mean, did they...?" She guided him to the nearest bed and he collapsed onto it.

"I'm okay. They just..." he wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, "...just worked me over. Kicked me where it hurts most."

"What do they want?" Ellen figured she knew, but she had to ask.

John leaned his head against the metal frame of the bunk. "I don't know. They didn't tell me anything or ask me questions. But I can guess."

Sam. Ellen and John would be bait in a trap for Sam. Ellen nodded, but said nothing. She thought it unlikely that their conversation was being overheard. Electrical devices tended to go haywire around demons, so they probably couldn't use security cameras or electronic listening devices. The walls and door were thick enough to block out most sound from outside, so someone listening at the door would get nothing. Even so, caution seemed best.

Having covered the essential information, Ellen turned her attention to John himself. The blood worried her and there was a stiffness to his movements which suggested he was hurt more badly than he let on. "Let me take a look at you," Ellen suggested.

John nodded, which only confirmed Ellen's fear. She unbuttoned his shirt, pushing his hands away when he tried to help, and directed him to lie on his back. There was no sign of bleeding except at his mouth: that was something. Ellen combed her fingers through his sweat-matted hair, exposing his bruised face. The contusions were deep and purple, mostly on the right side of his face. There was nothing she could do about that. Ice would help, but she had none.

John tried to smile, but it seemed to hurt him and he stopped. "Not so pretty any more?"

Ellen smiled back. "I never loved you for your looks anyway." It was, perhaps, a confession. She touched his cheek gently, feeling the shape of the swelling.

John winced at her touch.

"I think your cheekbone is broken," she told him.

"Could be. Hurts enough."

"Is that the worst?"

He seemed to think about that for a moment. "Ribs are bruised. Not broken." He took her hand in his, moving it to his chest. "Ellen, sweetheart, I'm okay. It was just the warm-up act."

That wasn't reassuring. "You mean they'll do worse next time?" Even as the words left her mouth, Ellen wished she could take them back. _Warm-up act_. John believed they were going to torture him.

He squeezed her hand. "There's nothing they can do to me. I survived a year in Hell, remember? I'm just glad they didn't hurt _you_."

"Not yet," she said cynically. She lifted his t-shirt to examine his ribs. "Holy shit. John!"

"I'm alright."

"Like hell you are!"

"I'll _be_ alright. Just need some rest."

"Fine. Be stubborn, since there's nothing else we can do." Ellen shook her head. "What are our chances of escape?"

"Not good. I couldn't see a way out and we're badly outnumbered. I need...more information."

Ellen shook her head. He meant he needed to see more of the building. But the only way that would happen was...

She jumped at a sound from the door. A slot had opened at the bottom of the door. A hand pushed a plate through the slot. It clanged shut.

"Damn. Guess we're gonna be here a while."

"What is it?" John asked. He must feel worse than she'd thought or he'd be trying to look for himself.

Ellen got up to investigate. "Food. Burgers and fries, juice in cartons." She smiled bitterly. "No water. Damn." No cutlery, either. Even the plate was paper.

"They ain't stupid," John commented.

_No, I guess not._ But she'd wanted water to clean his wounds, not to bless it. "Do you think it's safe to eat?"

"I couldn't. But if they wanted us dead, they'd have killed us on the road. Should be safe for you."

Very practical. Ellen picked up the plate, fighting a new wave of nausea. Maybe it was a hangover from the drugs, or maybe it was the horror of realising they were going to be prisoners for a long time.

***

One thing you could say for Lilith, as Dean said afterward: she didn't believe in subtle.

David reached them with the remains of the Jeep in tow just after dark. Bobby didn't think the Jeep was worth fixing, but what it contained - John's arsenal - was definitely worth salvaging. They emptied the trunk and stored everything, temporarily, in Bobby's house.

They were sitting around the table filling David in on everything they had decided when the whole house was rocked by an explosion. It came from the junkyard. Sam leapt to his feet, spilling beer all over one of Bobby's books. A second explosion ripped through the air. Sam looked at Dean and they both took off toward the yard.

They found two old cars burning, flames high, and a woman standing between them. She stood with her feet apart, a long, leather coat billowing around her legs in the wind created by the flames. In the light of the fire, Sam could see her eyes clearly: demonic black.

Sam unscrewed the cap of his hip flask as he skidded to a halt. "Dean," he said quietly.

Dean flashed a quick grin of understanding and left Sam alone with the demon. Sam wasn't worried. Dean would circle the fire and flank her. They didn't even need to talk it through first.

Sam stepped forward into the light of the twin fires.

"Sam Winchester," the demon called. She raised her hands, stretching her arms out to her sides and as she did so the flames rose higher. She tossed her head like a prancing horse and laughed.

Sam stood before her, the flask of holy water hidden at his side. "Lilith sent you," he said, speaking clearly but not shouting.

The demon stared him up and down. "I thought you'd be...older," she said, contempt heavy in her voice.

"I thought _you'd_ be smarter," Sam snapped back. "Deliver your message, bitch."

She dropped her pose and took a step toward him. "Lilith has your daddy and his woman."

_Tell me something I don't already know,_ Sam thought, though it was a relief to have confirmation. "Are they alive?" he demanded.

"For now. If you want to keep it that way, you'll do what she wants."

Sam smiled coldly. "You need to work on your menacing skills." He caught sight of Dean behind her and shook his head very slightly, telling Dean to wait. "But don't waste it on me. Just tell me what she wants."

The demon told him. It was almost exactly what Sam expected. Lilith demanded he deliver himself to her, alone and unarmed. She gave him twenty four hours to reach her at an address in south Georgia.

Sam signalled to Dean with his eyes. "Fine. Now you can be my answer to Lilith."

The demon opened her mouth to reply and Sam flung holy water on her. One vertical slash, one horizontal. He grabbed her as she screamed, as Dean flew at her from the other side.

Dean hooked one arm around her neck, pouring holy water down her front. "Exorcizamus te, omnis spiritus..."

Sam joined him in the chant. They were good at this and it didn't take long at all.

When the woman finished vomiting up black smoke, she collapsed into Sam's arms. He caught her and felt her body tremble. Her breath was hot on his neck.

"Oh, God," she sobbed. "Oh, God."

Sam held her awkwardly, meeting Dean's eyes over her shoulder. "She's alive," he breathed. It was a surprise. He'd become used to performing exorcisms and finding only a dead body left behind. "You're okay now," he said to her.

"Who...who are you?"

He gave her the truth without thinking. "My name is Sam." To Dean he said, "Get Bobby. She'll need a doctor."

Dean took off.

Sam guided the woman toward the house. She was alive. Funny how that didn't feel like a victory.

***

"You are _not_ just turning yourself over to Lilith," Dean said with finality.

"It doesn't seem like a wise course," David agreed.

Bobby, Sam was sure, would have voted with them, too, but he was driving the girl to the nearest hospital. It left Sam with only Dean and David to argue with. Or, only Dean, as Sam wasn't that concerned about David's opinion.

"Dean, it's Dad."

"You think I don't know that?"

"I think you're missing the point." Sam sighed. "Don't get me wrong. It's Dad, and I'd want to go after him anyway, but there's another reason we can't let Lilith have him. Remember what we were talking about yesterday? The other children?"

He watched the stubborn anger drain from Dean's face. "Oh, God. Dad knows who they are." He looked at Sam. "I'm still not lettin' you - "

Sam interrupted. "No. If I do as she told me, Lilith will know something's going on. She's expecting a double-cross. Dean, I have an idea. You're gonna hate it, but hear me out, okay?"

Dean looked wary. "Okay."

Sam turned to David. "First tell me about your abilities. You said you're not as powerful as I am. What _can_ you do?"

David answered, "Most of my power is over the mind. I can read emotions, sometimes thoughts. If the person co-operates, I can affect the mind directly and manipulate memories or knowledge. To help someone forget a trauma, for instance. As for the rest... I have visions of the future and I can see patterns of causality...it's complicated to explain quickly."

"And there's the immortality thing," Dean put in dryly.

"That is not power, it's a curse. And if your plan involves using that spell, you shouldn't rely on it."

Sam narrowed his eyes at David. "Did someone put it in the newsletter?" But he understood what David meant. If the demon who cursed David was killed, it was possible, even likely, the curse would end. Would that kill David instantly? Or would it only make him mortal again? How could they know?

"No," David answered, "but I can feel how you feel about this plan."

"Which is what, exactly?" Dean demanded. "For those of us who ain't psychic?"

Sam explained his plan.

***

There was silence in the room. Sam waited for one of them to respond.

Dean stared at him. He drew breath as if to speak, but he said nothing.

Sam looked at David. He returned Sam's look steadily, but remained silent.

Sam shrugged. "Well, say _something_!"

Dean drew another breath. "Just how many kinds of crazy are you?"

"It does seem..." David began at last, then changed his mind. "Are you certain you can trust this Ruby? Your plan seems to hinge on her co-operation."

"_That's_ what you think is wrong with this plan?" Dean protested.

"Do either of you have a better idea?" Sam asked. "I'm listening."

For a moment, there was silence again. Then David said, "This won't work. Not the plan, Sam. You two."

"What do you mean?" Sam frowned.

"You heard what I said about being able to read feelings. You and your brother need to have an honest conversation and you cannot do so with me here. So I'll be in my van." He headed for the door and turned back to them when he reached it. "Don't hold back, boys." The door swung closed behind him.

Sam looked at his brother. "Do you trust me, Dean?"

Dean nodded. "You know I do."

"I trust _you_. You're my brother, Dean. I know we don't agree on everything but sometimes..." Sam pulled out a chair and sat down, unable to look at Dean while he spoke. "Sometimes you do see these things more clearly than me. If you tell me this is too much, if this is a line I mustn't cross, then I _will_ trust you. Even if it costs us Dad. So tell me, Dean. Be honest."

Dean moved around Sam's chair, forcing Sam to look at him. "No, Sammy. It's a good plan. I hate it, but it's our best shot. But can you do it, Sam? Can you?"

Sam couldn't answer. Yes, he could do it. He could, because he didn't have a choice any more. The very thought turned his stomach and he wasn't certain he wouldn't put a gun to his head after, but he would do it. _I am become death, destroyer of worlds._ Wasn't that what the man who invented the bomb said? Sam knew how he felt.

"You and Dad, you both think this is all about the numbers," Dean said. "One innocent girl dies, we save maybe thousands of lives. Maybe millions, in the long run. Right?"

Sam nodded.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe it's worth it to save all those lives." Dean grasped Sam's shoulders, suddenly, gripping him hard enough to hurt. "But it's not worth it if I lose _you_, Sam! What is this gonna do to _you_?"

Sam couldn't answer.


	13. Chapter 13

Ellen cradled John's left hand in both of hers. The swelling was worse even than a few minutes before. Two of John's fingers were broken for sure. The joints were twisted at unnatural angles. In places the skin had been cut by whatever device they had used on him. The damage was horrible. Ellen kept her eyes down, looking at the injury until she was sure she could meet John's eyes.

His eyes were closed when she looked up, his jaw clenched tight against the pain. Perhaps he was afraid of the look on her face.

"John, I can't fix this." Ellen knew she was stating the obvious.

He didn't open his eyes. "I know. That was the point, I think." His voice was rough, as if his throat was sore. Ellen knew he had been screaming.

"There's no ice, so I can't bring the swelling down. I need to do that before I can splint your fingers, but..."

"But if we wait that long," John finished for her, still in that raspy, painful voice, "the bones will start to heal as they are." He opened his eyes, then, looking at her. "Ellen, don't even try if you're squeamish."

"Squeamish?" she repeated, mock-offended. "Me?" She could do what had to be done, but it would hurt him. John had endured enough torture for one day.

"It's okay." John moved his hand in hers and winced. "Do it," he ordered.

Ellen picked up her belt, which she'd discarded earlier, folded it over and offered it to him. "Bite on this."

John obeyed, holding the folded leather between his teeth.

Ellen felt her way along his smallest finger. It was the worst, broken at each joint and perhaps between the joints as well. It was impossible to be sure. John needed an x-ray and a surgeon, but she was all he had. At least it was his left hand. Small mercies.

Steeling herself, Ellen pulled slowly and steadily on the broken finger, starting at the base. She felt her grip slip in his sweat and had no choice but to grip harder. John cried out, the sound muffled by the leather but full of the agony he had to be feeling. Ellen kept up the pressure. Once begun, she dared not stop until it was done. John should have fought her, tried to escape the pain, but somehow he kept his hand and arm still, breathing heavily, sweat pouring down his face. Ellen felt the first joint slip into place and still she could not stop.

John screamed around the belt, half-formed words she knew he didn't mean, but he held still. His free hand gripped the metal headboard, the knuckles white.

Finally, Ellen released him. She kept his hand in one of hers and reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow.

"Right now," John said hoarsely, "I'd sell my soul for some aspirin."

"Don't say that too loud, one of 'em might hear you," Ellen said seriously. "And morphine's what you need." She looked down at his hand. The finger looked a lot better: still swollen but almost straight. "Do you want me to keep going?" she asked. It hurt him so much, but if he was to have any hope of using his hand again, she had to try.

John looked down. "I'm ready," was all he said.

Ellen began again.

When it was over, Ellen bandaged the fingers as best she could, using strips of her shirt for bandages and a folded paper plate as a splint. It was better than nothing.

Perhaps next time, the demons would take her instead. It would almost be a relief. Could John take more of this torture? This was the first time they had done him permanent damage, but she feared what else they might do to him. Despite her attempt at first aid, she wasn't convinced John would ever have much use of his hand again.

_Does it matter? They're going to kill us both._

John lay back on the bunk, cradling his injured hand. "Ellen."

"What, John?"

"Thanks."

Her eyes flew wide. "Holy shit, you're _thanking_ me?"

"I'm glad you're here, honey."

Ellen shook her head. "We need to get the fuck out of here while you can still walk," she reminded him.

John frowned. "Not easy. They'll be ready for the next attempt."

"So let's go over it again. John, you can't take much more of this."

"I can take it. It's just pain."

"Bullshit," she declared.

John reached for her with his good hand. "Believe me, Ellen, it could be a lot worse." He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. "They don't want us dead. This isn't about drawing Sam in; they don't need us alive for that. And what they've done to my hand..." he lifted the hand, emphasising his point, "isn't even close to the worst they could do to me. No, Ellen, they're being very careful and that's scaring me. What do they want from us?"

Ellen shook her head. "I don't know, John."

He drew in a deep breath. "Alright. We're in a bunker underneath the main house. If we get out of this room there's a hallway about fifteen feet long..."

***

Ruby walked down the long road alone, her high heels clicking on the uneven asphalt. She wore tight leather pants belted with an oversized silver buckle. The belt held her demon-killing knife in a sheath at her back, though she did not expect to need it this night. Above the belt buckle a jewelled cross hung between her breasts, glinting against her dark top. Her long, blonde hair gleamed in the moonlight.

The sweet scent of magnolia blossoms filled the air as she entered the grove. Here, trees curved above her, forming a long tunnel and the click-clack of her heels was muffled by fallen leaves. She walked boldly down the middle of the grove. With the moonlight behind her she would be clearly visible to any watcher. That was the point. Ruby could see the house ahead, its white-patched walls looming out of the darkness. The house had been the centre of a grand plantation once, before the war came and the place was burned. Long after the war the house was rebuilt by someone who had no idea about architecture. The result was a hybrid monstrosity: half of the house still resembled the great mansion of the King Cotton days, but the newer parts were brick-built and didn't match up at all. Outside, though, some remnant of old glories remained in the groves and gardens.

Ruby heard the dogs barking before she emerged from the grove. She knew from the sound that they were big dogs and the baying was coming closer and closer. Ruby sighed and turned toward the sound. She did not run. This would not take long.

They burst out of the trees, baying for blood. Ruby gestured - a lazy flick of power - and the lead dog flew backward into its pack-mates. It landed on its back, whining. It rolled and came to its feet. Ruby ignored the other five, focussing her gaze on the lead dog. She felt her eyes blacken as she gathered her power. The dog growled menacingly. Ruby stared it down and the growl became a frightened whine. The dog lay down, cowering submissively.

Ruby bared her teeth at it. "Piss off, puppy," she snarled.

The dog cringed.

"You heard me. Piss off."

The dog turned tail and ran. Its pack followed.

Ruby watched them go, satisfied. She continued down the road to the house. As she reached the tall, heavy doors they opened. Several demons emerged, forming a barrier between Ruby and the door.

Ruby stopped a short distance from them. "I want to see her," she announced, pitching her voice to carry.

"Why would she see you, traitorous bitch!" It was the male demon in the centre of the line. He'd chosen the body of some nightclub bouncer by the look of him. Pathetic.

Ruby rolled her eyes. "Look, you're going to let me pass anyway. Instead of making me slit your worthless throat, why don't we skip that part? It'll be so much friendlier."

"Let's not." He began to gather power into himself.

"You'll let me pass because you want to see what Lilith will do to me. And she'll see me because," Ruby smiled her victory, "I'm going to give her the Winchesters."

The demons let her pass.

Most demons had no imagination, in Ruby's opinion. They spent centuries trying to crawl out of Hell and when someone opened a door, when they finally escaped the prison of despair, they tried to build a piece of Hell on Earth. Ruby looked around the room with contempt that she couldn't quite hide. Maybe the house had been a BDSM brothel before Lilith and her cronies moved in. Maybe that was why she chose it. What was wrong with a nice apartment?

What had probably been a ballroom in the original house was now Lilith's torture room. There was a lot of black draped around the walls, a lot of leather and steel. A frame along one wall held chains to display slaves. Ruby saw torture devices familiar from the Dark Ages.

Ruby walked down the centre of the room and silence fell as the gathered demons saw her and recognised her. By the time she was halfway there, the loudest sound was her boots on the polished floor. There were two white marble pillars at the far end of the room, each with multiple chains set into them. She could see blood stark against the marble, but other than that there was no sign of victims.

It did make a kind of sense, Ruby decided. But if they missed torturing the poor damned souls in Hell so much, why didn't they just go back there?

Lilith herself sat on a raised dais in a large, black-draped chair. She was the picture of innocence in her white party dress and rosy cheeked smile, but Ruby didn't care a bit for her appearance. She _knew_ what Lilith was: psychotic even by demon standards. Ruby watched her carefully as she approached, alert for danger or some indication of the demon queen's mood.

Lilith gestured - the smallest motion of her tiny hand - and Ruby dropped to her knees at once. She lowered her eyes, putting on a show of submission.

"Ruby," Lilith cooed. "You saved me the trouble of hunting you down. How sweet."

Ruby kept her eyes downcast. It was an effort to make her voice submissive. "I came to serve you."

"You came," Lilith's voice hardened, "to serve _yourself_." She came down from her dais and stalked toward Ruby. The other demons formed a wide circle around them, cutting off Ruby's escape. It didn't matter: escape wasn't on her agenda.

Ruby risked looking up to meet Lilith's eyes. "Alright. I came to trade."

"Trade?"

"I can give you Sam Winchester."

Lilith leaned close, so her face filled Ruby's vision. "I don't need you for that."

She moved too fast for Ruby to see and threw Ruby to the floor. Ruby had no time to react and she slid across the ground, sprawling. She recovered quickly and scrambled to her knees again. But when she looked for Lilith, she saw her own knife in the demon-child's hand.

Ruby raised her chin, feigning a confidence she no longer felt. "You don't really think he'll just walk in here all alone, do you?"

Lilith pressed the knife into Ruby's cheek. "Talk."

"Sam will come to you, but he'll have a plan. He'll come with others. You'll kill him, of course, but it'll be messy. You'll have losses. Sam trusts me. I can persuade him to come with only his brother. I can tell you when and where they will be."

Lilith seemed interested. "In exchange for what?"

Ruby looked into Lilith's eyes. "I want my freedom. And I want John Winchester."

Those white eyes narrowed. "No."

"I know you have him," Ruby pressed on. "I don't care what you do with him, but I want what's left when he's no more use to you. Look into my mind, Lilith. You'll see how much I want to hurt him."

Lilith accepted Ruby's invitation. Ruby knew she would and she was braced for it, but she wasn't prepared for the touch of Lilith's mind. Lilith tore into Ruby's mindscape like the fires of Hell. Ruby screamed, clutching her head as if that could keep her out. She fought to show Lilith only what she wanted her to see. She was so strong! Ruby couldn't keep her out. Lilith sifted though her thoughts and memories like shuffling a deck of cards. There was only one chance for Ruby: distract her.

Ruby took the memory of what John did to her and _threw_ it at Lilith, showing her all of it, every second of that long torture and everything she wanted to do to the bastard in retaliation. When she felt Lilith begin to draw away mentally, Ruby grabbed for the knife that Lilith still held against her skin.

That did it. Lilith broke the connection between their minds. She slashed at Ruby, not with the knife but with power.

Had she seen? Did she know?

Ruby's blood flowed across the floor.  She saw the white tips of Lilith's slippers near her own face. The spreading pool of Ruby's blood didn't quite reach those perfect shoes.

Lilith's delighted laughter filled the air.

***

Dean switched the radio off and slowed the Impala. "I think that's the place," he said, turning the headlamps to full beam so Sam could see.

"Dead tree. Grey boulder. That's it," Sam agreed.

Dean killed the lights and drove a short distance past the rendezvous. He took the Impala off the road and parked behind some scrub. "You sure you want to do this?"

Sam turned to him, his expression serious. There was something different about Sam since the demon showed up at Bobby's yard. He seemed resigned, as if he didn't expect to survive this fight. But he'd shut down every attempt Dean made to talk about it or shake him out of his mood.

"If we don't," Sam said flatly, "Dad's dead. Or worse. Do you really want to talk me out of it?"

"No! But just the two of us? It's crazy, Sam. We could at least have Bobby and David as backup - "

"_Cannon fodder_ is what they would be," Sam growled. "Or did you forget Monument?"

"No, I didn't forget." Dean wanted to point out that it was _Sam_ he cared about, but speaking his fears aloud would make them too real. Sam was right: they had to do this for Dad. And for Ellen. Dean couldn't walk away from that.

He hated the plan.

Sam had known he would, of course. Back at Bobby's place Dean tried to persuade Sam to wait, even though waiting might cost John his life. Dean pointed out that they _had_ a plan. What about all those hunters Ellen and Bobby had called. Wouldn't it be better to wait for them? But it was Bobby, not Sam, who quashed that idea.

"It's too late to call off the meeting," Bobby conceded, "but you boys shouldn't be here when it happens. It'll be a fight and with John and Ellen missing I ain't sure we'd win. Even if we do, it'll delay you. You boys have to go while there's a chance they're still alive."

Sam agreed with Bobby. "Bobby, will you and David wait here? The meeting can still happen. If anyone will join you - us - you can follow us to Georgia."

"And what? Pick up the pieces?"

Sam shook his head wearily. "If we fail, Bobby, someone will have to."

Bobby's expression darkened. "Boy, if you believe you're gonna fail, you ain't goin'."

Sam looked up at him, pleading. "I don't plan on screwing up, but this is bigger than anything we've ever tried." He shook his head as if trying to dispel an irritating sound. "I keep seeing a black room full of candles, and a river of blood. I don't know if it's some kind of vision or just my imagination."

Dean exchanged a look with the older hunter and knew they were both thinking the same thing. This plan kept sounding worse and worse. The trouble was, neither of them could come up with a better one.

So Dean simply killed the engine and climbed out of the Impala. He walked around to the trunk. He was already armed but he added a couple of spare magazines to his pockets and two bottles of holy water.

Sam joined him, silently loading up: water, salt, gun, knives. He checked the devil's trap drawn on the trunk.

Dean reached into the trunk for one last weapon then slammed it closed. "Let's go to work."

***

They waited for Ruby until the first light of dawn turned the sky from black to deepest indigo. She didn't show up.

It didn't change the plan, but it didn't make Dean like this any more. Did something go wrong? Or had she screwed them?

They set off toward the house. They walked in silence, both alert for any sign of pursuit or danger. The trees cast long shadows in the dawn light and the morning air smelled like damp earth. They moved as quietly as they could, Dean with his gun in one hand. The gun wouldn't be much use against demons, but it made him feel better.

They got surprisingly close before the demons surrounded them. It happened very quickly. One moment Dean was looking at his brother, asking silently which way Sam wanted to go, the next they were in the middle of a fight.

The brothers turned at the same time, placing themselves back to back. Dean shoved the gun into his pocket and, in the same movement, grabbed the first bottle of holy water. He squeezed the plastic bottle, spraying a jet of water around him in a semi-circle. Every demon he hit reacted in pain. One of them rounded on him, snarling like a dog. Dean aimed his next jet at that snarling face, but he never had the chance to aim a third.

The snarling demon went down, clawing at his steaming face. Some great weight slammed into Dean's side and his body was suddenly airborne. He flew awkwardly into the nearest tree. The impact knocked the breath out of him. He braced himself for the fall, but it didn't happen. Dean hung there, five feet above the ground.

Dean went for his second bottle, a little surprised he could move. Beneath him, Sam was fighting hand-to-hand, which was pretty dumb, but Sam seemed to be doing okay. Two demons down. Dean got his bottle aimed at the demons below.

Sam looked up toward him. He raised one hand and the bottle was wrenched from Dean's grasp. Sam caught it and turned it on the demons. More cries of pain filled the air. Dean heard Sam begin an exorcism but there was no way it could work like that. There were just too many of them.

They fought a good fight, but of course they both lost in the end.

Dean ended up face-down in the dew-damp grass with a demon's knee in the middle of his back. The demon yanked Dean's hands behind his back. Pain shot through his shoulders and he turned his head to one side, struggling to breathe while his hands were bound with rope.

He saw Sam, held down by three demons. Sam was looking Dean's way even as he struggled against their captors.

Dean just couldn't help it. "Great plan!" he spat at his brother. "Fucking great plan!"

***

Not even the most deranged movie set-designer could have come up with this, Sam thought as he got his first look at Lilith's hall of horrors. He had a demon-guard on each side, and his hands were bound. Behind him, Dean was in a similar predicament. There was nothing they could do but co-operate and hope for an opening.

The hall was like Anne-Rice-meets-Hellraiser: a torture chamber with mock-gothic touches. Sam saw the torture devices and chains but resolutely ignored them all. The air smelled of burning wax from the many candles around the room. It wasn't an affectation, Sam realised: the electric light wouldn't be very reliable with so many demons around.

The ropes at Sam's wrists were beginning to cut into his skin. His hands were becoming numb. It was not a good sign.

The demons had searched them both outside. They destroyed the holy water, of course, and took the guns. Sam still had a switchblade they had missed and he would bet Dean still had a weapon or two. Would that be enough?

The crowd parted ahead of them and Sam saw the man chained to the marble pillar. He was chained with his back to the room, as if hugging the cold marble and his face was turned away from them, but Sam recognised his father at once. He fought not to look back at Dean. He fought not to show any feeling at all at the sight of his father's blood-streaked back. Sam lost the battle with himself and twisted to see Dean. Dean was staring at John, the horror naked on his face. It was all too easy to read Dean's thoughts: were they too late? What had they done to him?

Sam looked again at his father. John wasn't moving. _Don't let him be dead. Please don't let him be dead._ There was a wide patch of dried blood on the floor near the pillar. A lot of blood had been spilled there. Was it Dad's?

That was when Sam saw Lilith. He was familiar with her appearance - or, rather, the appearance of the body she inhabited. The second time he and Dean escaped her was in a busy shopping mall. Lilith's demons had burned the place to the ground searching for them. The news services reported it as a terrorist attack, but a few days afterward Sam found a video of the incident on YouTube of all places. It was a film taken from someone's cell phone and it showed a child, a little girl, walking through the flames as if they weren't even there. Sam knew it had to be Lilith. But they had never before met in the flesh.

Sam could feel Lilith's power, a kind of pressure in his mind. He concentrated on building up his psychic shields, but she didn't try his defences. That pressure he felt was simply her presence. She wasn't more _powerful_ than Azazel had been, but she was very different.

Lilith walked toward him, hand-in-hand with a demon in an older woman's body. The woman's hands were coated with blood so thick that at first Sam thought she was wearing gloves. Lilith's white dress was spattered with blood like poker dots. She turned her face toward Sam. Her eyes were absolutely white. It was as if she were blind, but Sam didn't think that was it.

He shook off the demons holding his arms but made no move toward her. He would have only one chance at this.

Lilith smiled. It was a child's smile: a little girl unwrapping a much-anticipated gift. "I've waited a long time to meet you, Sam Winchester," she said in a high, clear voice.

Sam shrugged. "Well, I'm here. So now what?"

She signalled and the demons took Sam's arms again.

"Put him with his whore," Lilith ordered. She turned toward Dean.

Panic filled Sam as the demons began to drag him away. They were taking him, but not Dean. Why? Wasn't it _him_ they wanted? Sam struggled against the demons that held him. "No! Dean!" They couldn't be separated. No!

A demon jerked Sam's arm painfully, and hissed into his ear. "Stop, or we kill him slow."

Sam stopped struggling. It would be okay. It _had_ to be okay.

The demons led him to a door painted with symbols Sam didn't recognise. One of the demons unlocked the door. It led into a small room with floor-to-ceiling bars bisecting it, like a cell in a small-town police station. There was someone on the other side of the bars. Sam saw long blonde hair matted with blood, a woman's figure crouched on the floor. Ruby!

When she hadn't met them at the rendezvous, Sam assumed she'd made a run for it. To find her here was a shock. She should be miles away by now.

Ruby looked up and met Sam's eyes. She said nothing.

The demons released the ropes at Sam's wrists. He considered making a break for it, but co-operating seemed the best way to get the plan back on track. He was terrified for Dean...but Dean would take care of himself. So Sam allowed them to tie him to the bars of the cell. They tied him standing up with his arms spread wide, his back to the cell. He remained silent while they bound him and left. The lock clicked and he heard the scrape of something being placed in front of the door.

"Ruby? What happened?" Sam craned his neck to look at her. From his position, it wasn't easy. The best he could do was to watch with his peripheral vision.

"What do you _think_ happened?" she demanded contemptuously.

"Does she know?"

Ruby was silent. "I'm not sure. She...she...got into my mind. She saw a lot but I don't know."

Okay. If Lilith knew what Sam planned to do, she would have killed him right away. Unless...no, don't think that. So Lilith didn't know the plan. It could still work.

"Why are you still here?" Sam asked. "You know what - "

"I can't leave!" she snapped. "Prisoner, dude. See?"

Sam damned near broke his own neck but finally he _did_ see: there was a devil's trap drawn on the floor of Ruby's cell. But how did that get there? Could a demon have drawn that?

He was letting it distract him. Fuck. "Alright. Hold on. I'm going to get us out of here."

Sam could not reach the knots at his wrists, but if he concentrated he might be strong enough to...

"Don't waste your time."

"What?"

"Your powers won't work in here. Didn't you see the door?"

Oh. Oh, shit. Sam sighed. "Can you reach me at all?"

"I'll try."

Sam waited. He heard Ruby swear. Well, it was a long shot. Then he felt her touch - her hand on his ass.

"My left leg. I have a knife in my boot." Sam tried to push his foot through the bars, but the gap was too narrow. He waited.

After a while, Ruby swore again. "I can't. It's too far."

He didn't answer. He tried to turn his wrist within the rope. It hurt, but he could move, a little. It would take hours to get loose this way, but he could do it. He closed his eyes, concentrating on that small movement, making the ropes give, just a little, just a little more.

"I saw him," Ruby said, breaking his concentration. "John. He's alive, but - "

Sam sighed. "I bet that cuts you up." He continued to turn his wrist, one way then the other. "I saw him, too," he admitted finally.

"She's using Jezebel," Ruby said.

Sam stopped. "Who's Jezebel?" He knew the name, of course, but he thought it unlikely that Ruby was talking about a biblical hooker.

"She's Lilith's torturer."

Sam remembered all the blood he saw on the floor around the pillar. "Dad won't talk," he answered. He knew it was true. But what would keeping his secrets cost Dad?

"You don't get it, Sam. It doesn't matter if he talks. Jezebel uses pain to break into her victims' minds. Whatever he knows, she can find if she hurts him badly enough."

"Ruby. Shut up and let me work." Sam went back to trying to loosen the rope. _Jezebel is Lilith's torturer. She uses pain to break into her victims' minds._ Which meant that Sam needed to get to John soon, before Lilith could learn what she wanted: the names and locations of the next generation of psychic children.

"Sam." Ruby interrupted him again. "Get me out of here. Please."

Sam didn't understand. "I'm a little tied up right now!" he declared irritably.

"You can do it. Get me out of here. Send me back."

Finally, Sam got it. She was suggesting he could exorcise her. Well, she was in a devil's trap. He had no holy water, but he had performed exorcisms without it before. It should work. But why would she want to go to Hell? Sam knew Hell was Hell, even for demons.

"Are you sure, Ruby?"

"I've got a better chance in Hell than if I stay here. So yes! Do it."

Sam craned his neck to look around at her. What had Lilith done to make Ruby so afraid? Or was it him she feared?

"Ruby," he said softly, "I know you helped us for your own reasons. I know you used me. Just the same, thank you."

"You have no idea what my reasons were," she answered, but her voice was softer now.

"I'm damned sure it wasn't for my pretty face. But if you find a way out of Hell, look me up. I think I owe you one."

"Just do it, Sam. Before they come for you."

_Alright._ Sam focussed all his attention on Ruby. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas..."

Ruby screamed. Black smoke poured from her mouth in a thick torrent, upward until it hit the ceiling. Then  it plunged down, down through the floor. Into Hell.

The body Ruby had stolen a year before toppled over, blood spilling from several wounds and forming a slowly spreading pool around her.


	14. Chapter 14

John was lost in pain. He could no longer distinguish one hurt from the others. Earlier he could: the shattered and swollen fingers of his hand throbbed with his pulse. The cuts down his back were a sharp pain, the ticklish trails of his blood a counterpoint that somehow made the pain more distinct. But somewhere between the burns and the moment the stretched muscles of his arms and legs started to cramp and shake it all became just _pain_. He should have been paying attention to everything happening around him, but he couldn't.

Being in Hell was worse...but John had forgotten how a living body could become so tired, how pain could wear you down until even relief was pain. Until the only thing that he wanted or needed was oblivion.

The demon bitch who tortured him never once asked him a question. Yet John was certain this wasn't just for her entertainment. This was too methodical: there was some purpose to his pain. There were moments when images would flash into his mind. Each was there only for a moment, never long enough for him to catch it. John knew the demon was doing it, somehow. He was afraid he was giving them what they wanted because he had no idea what that could be.

He hung there in his chains, naked to the waist, waiting for the next blow, the next agony.

Instead, he heard his son's voice. "Dad? Oh, Dad, please."

Fear lent him strength and he tried to raise his head away from the smooth marble. He saw relief flash across Dean's face. John tried to speak, but could not. _Dean. Oh, Dean why are you here? You shouldn't be here._ John closed his eyes and took a slow breath before he could open them again. By then the demons were working on Dean. They chained Dean to the pillar with John. John felt the chains holding him jerk tight. Dean was on the opposite side of the pillar, his chest against the marble. It meant that John could touch his son - he could just reach Dean's hands - but he couldn't see him. John reached toward Dean's hand with his good right hand and felt their fingers entwine. Dean squeezed his fingers hard, silently reassuring. _It'll be okay, Dad_, the gesture said. Of course it was a lie.

John heard cloth tear and knew they were stripping Dean. He saw Jezebel standing back, watching eagerly.

She moved closer to Dean, reaching out to touch him. "A little the worse for wear already, I see," she cooed.

John figured it was the Hell-hound claw mark on Dean's shoulder that had the bitch all excited. A fresh wound, though it must be mostly healed by now.

He heard Dean's voice replying to her, but not the words. Dean's tone was familiar, though, mockingly sarcastic and John prayed Dean could keep up that spirit.

Why was Dean here? Where was Sammy? Surely the boys weren't stupid enough to come after him again? Fear made John cold. He turned his head, trying to see. The room stretched behind him, dark and threatening. He saw no sign of Sam. Was that a good thing?

The demon, Jezebel, was there, her smile malicious. "Two Winchesters for the price of one," she purred. "I wonder which of you I can break first."

John didn't waste breath answering her.

Lilith hovered behind Jezebel, looking critically at Dean. "Don't kill him," she instructed, "and I don't want him losing too much blood. He'll need it later. Except for that, he's all yours." The demons moved away.

That didn't sound good. They had only a moment before Jezebel returned. John tried his voice.

"Dean?" He squeezed Dean's hand as he spoke. The word came out like sand in a cement mixer.

"Dad? Are you alright?"

John took the question for its meaning, not the words. Of course he wasn't "alright", but that wasn't what Dean really meant. "Been worse," he answered. "Can you reach my other hand? The hinge on the chain is loose."

"I'll try."

John stretched as far around the pillar as he could. It was his broken hand, but he'd felt the fragile hinge. If Dean could reach it, he might be able to free John's hand. Exactly what good that would do, John wasn't sure. But one step at a time.

Dean's fingers found the hinge quickly. "Dad, Sam is - "

"No! Don't tell me."

Jezebel's footsteps approached

"Be strong, son." John pulled his good hand away from Dean's touch. It was all he could do to spare Dean.

It was just in time. Jezebel carried a whip in her hands, a long cat o'nine tails. She ran the tails through her fingers, making sure John could see every moment of the slow, teasing gesture. Each strand of the whip was knotted along its length, and carried a small, pointed weight on the end. The knots would maximise the pain of each blow; the weights ensured each tail would hit as hard as possible. John braced for the pain.

Jezebel let the tails of the whip fall to the floor and drew her arm back in a graceful arc. The weights hissed along the polished floor. John heard the _whoosh_ of the whip and then the white-hot pain seared across his back. John yelled his pain. He learned that in Hell: scream, if you can, because it's so much worse when you can't.

Dean echoed John's cry. "Dad!" He pulled against the chains, struggling.

John had to concentrate just to breathe. He expected another blow. It didn't come. He heard the hiss of the whip across the floor again. Jezebel leaned close to him. She stroked his hair gently. She licked the blood from his skin. John forced himself to remain still and endure it, because Dean's fingers were once again working at his wrist.

Jezebel leaned up to his ear. "Now that you know how it feels, baby..." she whispered.

John felt the hinge come loose from his wrist. He held his breath. Had she noticed?

She stalked around the pillar, once again drawing the whip through her hands. Dean would be next. She wanted John to listen while she whipped the skin from Dean's back.

Dean would try not to scream. He would fight it for as long as he could, but John didn't believe Dean could hold out forever. And if Jezebel could read Dean's mind, as so many demons could, it wouldn't matter. The moment Dean thought about whatever plan he and Sam had concocted, Jezebel would know it.

John could not allow that to happen. Sam was the one and only chance they had now.

But to give Sam that chance, Jezebel couldn't be permitted to hurt Dean. John could see only one way to stop it.

He shook the chain off his left wrist. Letting the other chain take his weight, he swung around the pillar to where Dean was chained. He saw Jezebel's face for an instant, her black eyes wide with shock before the loose chain slammed into her body. John had a split second to see Dean, his arms outstretched, the muscles of his back tense. Dean started to turn toward John. John reached out with his useless, broken hand. Just that small flex of his fingers was like plunging his hand into molten metal. He tasted blood. John reached out and slammed his hand into the back of Dean's head with all his strength. Dean, unprepared for it, smashed into the marble.

The pain in John's broken hand overwhelmed him and his legs buckled.

Dean sagged in his chains, unconscious.

Jezebel grabbed a handful of John's hair, jerking his face up to hers. "You'll pay for that!"

"Fuck you, bitch!" he spat. It was done. Dean's secret was safe...for now.

John saw a glint of silver in Jezebel's hand. A knife. She pulled his head back, exposing his throat.

The knife flashed down.

***

Pain was good. Pain meant he was alive. But, damn, did there _have_ to be so much of it?

Dean felt a warm hand enclose his wrist and lift his arm, gently laying it across his chest. The gesture didn't feel threatening. He opened his eyes. Everything was blurred and too-bright, but the face swimming out of the blur was familiar.

Ellen stroked his forehead with a cool cloth. "Hey, Sweetie. How do you feel?"

Dean groaned. "Like I got hit by a truck." It wasn't a truck, though, was it? Not this time. It had been...

The memory returned with a rush of adrenaline. Lilith. Sam. Dad. _Dad_ knocked him out!

"Whoa!" Ellen held Dean down as he tried to sit up. "You're hurt, Dean."

He barely heard her. "Sam! Where's Sam?" The world swirled around him and acid rose into his throat. He lay back weakly, swallowing hard. That was the first time he noticed he was lying on a bed and there was the mattress of the upper bunk above him.

"I don't know," Ellen answered. "I haven't seen Sam at all."

"Dad! He - "

Ellen frowned. "He hit you. I know."

Dad must have been possessed. It was the only explanation that made sense. The chained-prisoner thing was just some head-fuck. But why? What was the point?

"Dean," Ellen said softly, not quite meeting his eyes, "John was trying to save you. He was afraid the demon would read your mind and find out your plan. So he took you out. They can't read you if you're unconscious."

_He nearly killed me, Ellen!_ "No," Dean protested. "Dad wouldn't..." Except he had. John asked Dean to help free him, and Dean had done it. Hadn't he always followed Dad's orders? Dean remembered the demon-woman, and Dad crying out in pain. God, how bad did it have to be for Dad to scream like that? Then he had...but the rest was fuzzy. He recalled only John smashing his head into the pillar.

What Ellen said made sense, but...

"How do I know _you're_ not possessed?" Dean demanded. Demons had fooled him before.

"I guess you don't," Ellen answered. She touched the tattoo on his chest. "That's smart."

Dean caught her hand in his, gripping as hard as he could. He murmured the first lines of the exorcism ritual. When Ellen didn't even flinch, Dean released her. "Jesus, Ellen. This is so fucked up. He could have killed me."

"John's been through a lot. They..." Ellen looked away from him, her expression darkening. "They punished him for what he did, Dean."

_Oh, God. What does that mean?_ Dean tried to sit up again. "Where is he?"

Ellen didn't try to hold him down this time. Instead she shifted so she could help him sit up. Pain swirled through his skull again. He let her help him.

Then he saw his father.

John was sitting on the concrete floor, still naked to the waist. He was hunched over, his face turned toward the wall. In the harsh electric light, the signs of abuse were all too clear: dried blood on his skin, bruises and lacerations. He was hugging a cloth against his chest, a cloth saturated with blood.

"Dad?" Dean tried. There was so much blood...

John looked up, moving very slowly. "I'm...okay, son."

"The fuck you are!" Ellen objected.

That was enough. Dean pushed Ellen out of his way and slid off the bed. Just that movement made the room start swimming again. Dean focussed on his father and crawled slowly toward him There was too much blood for the injuries he could see. Was it covered by the cloth? Did they slash John's wrist or something?

Dean reached John and tried to touch the bloody rags. "Dad, let me see."

John held his hand out to Dean. His hand wasn't there. The arm ended four or five inches below the elbow, the stump wrapped in the bloody rags and evidently still bleeding. Someone - it had to be Ellen - had improvised a tourniquet using a belt just above the elbow. Dean checked it and cinched it tight. John gasped in pain.

Dean looked up, a silent apology in his eyes. He had no idea what to say. Dean had nursed his father through a lot of injuries but this wasn't something he could fix with iodine and a few stitches. This was permanent.

"Dean, it's okay," John said quietly.

Two years before, Dean might have been reassured by that. But he learned better on the day John sold his soul. _Don't be scared, Dean,_ John told him then. Bastard. Dean would never again believe his father when he used that tone.

"Ellen's right. The _fuck_ it's okay!"

"I'm alive. You're alive. The rest I can handle."

"But - "

"Son. You and Sam have a plan. Let's focus on that."

Dean drew back. If Dad damn near killed him to stop the demons learning the plan, then he _knew_ Dean couldn't tell. Not anyone. "No, I - "

"I don't mean tell me the plan," John said. "It's best if no one knows. Just tell me how I can help."

Dean looked pointedly at John's mutilated arm. "I don't think you can. I need to be with Sam." He looked around their prison, taking in the bleak surroundings. Sam wasn't in the room. He might be dead already. If he was, it was over. Dean met his father's eyes, hoping his fears didn't show. "It's okay if I'm hurt, Dad. It's okay if I'm in chains. I just have to be in the same room with Sam when he confronts Lilith."

John looked grim. "I can pretty much guarantee that one of us will be."

_But neither of us can control that._ Dean understood. Every instinct told him to confide in John. He always had, and goddamn it, John Winchester was the best hunter on the road. He could help. John would probably approve of Sam's crazy plan. He had that same obsessive streak, the same willingness to do the unthinkable in his cause. But if Ellen was right and these demons could read minds, it was too dangerous to tell him. Even Dean knowing was too dangerous.

Surreptitiously, Dean slipped a hand into his jeans pocket. The small bag was still there. He crushed it between his fingers and felt the contents. They hadn't found it. There wasn't much of the herbal mixture, but if Dean shared it with John, they could be sure at least one of them could get to Sam...

John reached up with his good hand and began fumbling at the tourniquet.

Dean stopped him. "What are you doing?"

"If I'm too weak when they come, they'll take you instead. Blood loss will - "

"No," Dean said firmly. "You've already lost too much."

Ellen crouched beside them. "Dean, you should rest. You've got a bad concussion and they could come for you any time."

She was right, but Dean stayed where he was, looking into John's eyes. "Don't do anything stupid, Dad, okay? Takin' you out of here in a body bag is _not_ Sam's plan."

John nodded. "Alright, son."

Satisfied, Dean allowed Ellen to help him back to the bed. He lay down and the agonising headache eased a little. Happiness is relative. His last thoughts before sleep took him again was that he should have told John that Lilith was after the children...and where was Sam?

***

Sam was staring into the barrel of a large shotgun. It wasn't the first time he'd seen a demon use a gun, but it was unusual. The gun told Sam two things: one, that this demon knew more than most of them about how the modern world worked and, two, that they meant business this time.

He wasn't sure how long he had been tied in this room with only Ruby's body for company. It was several hours at least. Long enough for his arms to ache and his calf to begin to cramp. He was stretching the leg, trying to fight the cramp when the door opened and the demon came in. The demon took one look at the body lying in its pool of blood and fled.

Moments later, he returned with some cronies and the shotgun.

Sam stared down the gun while two of them entered the cell and removed the body. Sam stared down the barrel of the gun so he wouldn't have to look at the innocent girl Ruby killed. It was Ruby, not Sam, responsible for that girl's death, but Sam still felt some guilt. He could have sent Ruby back to Hell when they first met. If he had, maybe that girl would be alive today, instead of a broken, bloody piece of meat.

One of the demons untied Sam's hands. He lowered his arms with relief, but the shotgun still pointed steadily at his face, warning him to make no other move. Sam stayed where he was, passive, waiting.

"Strip," the demon with the gun ordered.

"Excuse me?" Sam blurted, too surprised to say anything else.

The demon scowled at him. "Take. Your. Clothes off. Now!"

This couldn't be going anywhere good. _Remember the plan, Sam. Whatever they do, you can take it._ Sam began to unbutton his shirt. If they made him strip down to nothing they would find the knife. That was a problem, but Sam thought he could deal with it. He stripped off the shirt and t-shirt, dropping each to the floor. He unbuckled the belt and drew it out through the loops before dropping it, too. He unbuttoned the jeans, but went no further, gazing at the demon.

"All of it," the demon instructed. "The boots, too."

_Damn._ Sam bent to unlace his boots. The shotgun moved with him. He felt something in his back pocket as he bent over and slipped a hand into the pocket as he straightened. He felt the small cloth pouch and realised Ruby must have given it to him. But how was he going to keep it if they made him strip completely?

When Sam raised his pants leg to unlace the first boot he loosened the band holding the knife to his calf. When he pulled the jeans off, he slipped the knife away with them. If he was lucky, they would never know he had been armed. He feigned a cough and stuffed the pouch into his mouth before he slipped off his underpants without waiting for another order. The demon didn't seem to notice. As long as he didn't have to speak, Sam would be okay.

Sam stood up straight, naked. He made no attempt to cover himself and did his best to ignore how vulnerable he felt, naked and unarmed.

A demon picked up his clothing and the knife clattered to the floor. Sam tried to keep his face impassive but couldn't help watching them. Damn it, he needed that knife!

Another demon came in with fresh clothing neatly folded in her arms. Sam wasn't sure what to make of this. The strip search made sense: it ensured he couldn't conceal anything. It humiliated him. He would not have been surprised if they tried to do a cavity search, too. But why not just give him back his own clothing?

Sam dressed when instructed and found that the clothes fit him fairly well. The pants - black, soft wool - were a little short and a little loose at the waist. They didn't give him a belt. There were white briefs and black socks. The sweater was black, too, a cotton turtleneck. The shoes were plain loafers, his size. The clothing was comfortable. By turning his back on them to dress, Sam managed to slip the pouch of herbs into a pocket without - he hoped - any of them noticing.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Now," the demon answered, "Lilith wants to see you."

_About time!_ Sam spread his hands in an exaggerated shrug. "Fine. Take me to your leader."

The demon motioned with the shotgun. The movement was too wide; under other circumstances it would have been the opening Sam needed to escape. But not tonight. He walked toward the exit. _Dean, I need you now. Please be there._

***

There was no sign of Dean or John as Sam walked into Lilith's hall. In a way, it was a relief not to see John chained and bleeding. But he _needed_ Dean. He needed Dean even more now they had deprived him of his knife.

Lilith sat on her dais in a chair that made her look even smaller than she was, but there was a new, smaller chair beside her.

Sam didn't hurry his walk down the middle of the room. The smell of burning wax was strong and the many candles threw odd shadows onto the walls. There were at least twenty demons in the room.

Dean would have made some joke about _Hellraiser_. Sam felt more like he was in a Bond movie: the scene where the villain offers Bond a martini and explains all his plans before ordering Bond's execution. Of course, in the movies Bond always escapes.

Lilith didn't offer him a martini. She did offer him a seat beside her, and that made Sam uncomfortable enough. He sat down warily.

"Why'd you kill Ruby?" Lilith ask conversationally.

Sam gave the answer he had prepared. "The bitch betrayed me. She knew I'd send her back to Hell when she stopped being useful." He gazed at the marble pillar as he spoke. Its chains were now empty. There was fresh blood on the floor that hadn't been there the last time Sam was in this room. It sent a chill down his spine.

He felt Lilith pushing at his mind, trying to test the truth of his words. It was an odd sensation. The image that came into his mind was a goldfish swimming in a clear plastic bag, a child poking at the plastic but unable to reach the fish through the water. Sam, without really understanding what he was doing, thrust power into that image, replacing vulnerable plastic with glass.

"Where are my father and brother?" he asked her.

"Below," she answered. "All in good time, Sam."

"Are they alright?" he insisted.

Lilith twirled a lock of her hair around her finger. "You have a strange family, Sam. Among us, family means something. Loyalty. Love."

He looked at her directly for the first time. "Among _you_," he corrected, "there is no family." A serial killer might consider his trophies his family, but that didn't make it so. "I know you don't know _love_."

"You think not?" Lilith beckoned to another demon who approached and sat beneath her chair. The body was a teenaged boy with curly blonde hair. Lilith petted his hair as if he were a dog. "I chose him," Lilith said, "when he was human. He came to me willingly in life. In death I kept his soul close for centuries. I created what he is today. Don't you think that makes him my son?"

Sam remembered Meg telling him she did what she did for loyalty and love. He remembered Azazel taunting Dean: _You destroyed my children. How would you feel if I killed your family? Oh, that's right. I forgot. I did._

Sam looked at the demon Lilith called her son. "You conned him into selling his soul and you tortured him for centuries. That makes you a lot of things, but _family_? I don't think so." Sam met Lilith's strange eyes. "Now, answer my question. Is Dean alright? And my dad?"

"They are alive."

It wasn't an answer, but Sam let it go at first.

Lilith leaned forward, holding on to the arms of her chair as if afraid she would fall. "You have some power, Sam Winchester," she said. "Now you've finally become what you were intended to be, I can use you."

Sam wondered if this was the conversation Jake had with Azazel. But Lilith was wrong. She could use him only if he let her and Sam would die first. He didn't want to let her know that, though: not yet.

"Is that what this is about?" Sam forced a smile to his face. "They all told me you wanted me dead."

"You can be useful to me, Sam. You should consider it...for the sake of your family."

The threat frightened him, but it was what Sam had been waiting for. He looked again at the blood-soaked floor, letting her know he understood her threat. He let her see he was afraid of it. When he was sure she got it, Sam turned to her, leaning forward in his chair and meeting her eyes, making it seem like an effort.

"Let me tell you something about my family," Sam said. He knew the words didn't sound as confident as they should. "Azazel murdered my mother and my father. He's dead now. The crossroads demon thought she could buy my brother's soul. She's dead. The one she served tried to kill Dean a few weeks ago. Guess what? He's dead, too." He narrowed his eyes at Lilith. "You want to make it four for four?" It was a bluff when he'd said it to Beelzebub, but that was then. Sam felt the power rushing through his veins, pumping through his heart. He _knew_ he could defeat Lilith.

Sam had become the rival she feared.

Lilith laughed, a joyous, delighted sound. "Oh, Sam, look at you. Trying to be so brave. You don't have the Colt any more, sweet boy. Ruby won't be riding to your rescue. How do you think you're going to kill me?"

Sam answered, "If you hurt my family, believe me, I'll find a way."

Lilith rose from her chair and came toward him. "Serve me, Sam, and you won't have to."

He scoffed, "Not a chance."

"Think about it, Sam. I want a few simple services, not your soul. Your family will be safe. You can even keep hunting, just not my demons. It's a good offer."

Sam shook his head. She wasn't asking for his soul, but he would lose it anyway if he took her offer. But she knew what answer he would give. She knew. "I'm never going to agree to this. Why even ask?"

Lilith gestured impatiently.

An invisible hand closed around Sam's throat. He gasped for air. He couldn't breathe! Sam clawed at his throat, instinctively trying to free himself but his hands encountered only his own flesh. Panic filled him as blood pounded in his skull and his lungs screamed for air. Sam fell from the chair to his knees. His body was shaking so much he couldn't even stay upright. From the floor, Sam looked up at Lilith. His vision was grey at the edges. _Breathe! Oh, God, can't breathe, please, can't..._

Lilith was smiling down at him, a sweet, innocent child.

Sam reached out to her, not with his hands, but with power. It was a desperate move, anything to distract her for an instant so he could take a breath.

But when his power touched Lilith's, for an instant Sam saw into her mind. He saw the truth of what she was and could not comprehend it. Bile rose up, burning the back of his throat.

_Please,_ Sam thought, and it was a prayer, a hope.

He lost consciousness.

***

Sam woke tied to a chair. There were steel handcuffs around his wrists, each set holding him to one arm of the chair. Ropes encircled his arms at the elbows and his legs at his ankles. He was facing the back wall of Lilith's hall. Sam kept his head down, not ready to show that he was awake.

It didn't work.

"Sam." It was Jezebel's voice. "Welcome to the show."

_Oh, fuck, that sounds bad._ Sam gave up faking unconsciousness and tried to turn his head enough to see her. He couldn't move enough to see.

The chair Sam was in lifted itself off the ground and slowly rotated in the air. The rest of the room came into his view like a theatre curtain drawing back. _Welcome to the show_. It was a show, alright. Oh, God...

Jezebel had Dean and John tied to an upright L-shaped frame. The vertical part of the L held Dean, hanging upside-down. His arms were bound to his sides and he was naked to the waist. He didn't look injured. _Oh, God, please let him be okay!_ Beneath Dean, Jezebel had tied John to the horizontal part of the L. John lay in an odd position: it looked as if his hands were tied under his back, so his body arched upward. That had to be painful. He could see the marks of abuse on John's body: bruises and dried blood.

"Dean!" Sam called to let them know he was there.

"Don't do it, Sam!" Dean called back. His voice was strained, but Sam heard him. _Don't do it_ meant that Dean was ready. They had agreed on the code beforehand. Fear ran through Sam like freezing water. There had been no turning back from the moment they entered this building, but now the moment had arrived. Dean's questions came back to Sam: could he really do this? Was he this sure of his unwanted powers? Truthfully, Sam wasn't completely sure.

But he was sure of what Lilith was about to do. Maybe he had seen one too many horror/slasher movies, but the intent of this display seemed obvious. She was going to kill Dean. She was going to cut his throat and let him bleed out, with John right beneath him where the blood would pour all over John's face. John could choke on Dean's blood. He might literally drown in it. While Sam would be forced to watch.

Unwilling, Sam felt his power build, as it had that night in Colorado. He struggled to contain it. It was like something inside coming to the boil; any moment it was going to spill over.

Jezebel smiled as if she could read Sam's thoughts and drew a long, slightly curved knife from her belt.

_You bitch. You fucking bitch!_

Sam turned to Lilith. He whispered the words, as if too cowed to speak aloud. "Alright. What do I have to do?"

"All you have to do, Sam," Lilith answered sweetly, "is watch them die."

"No!" Sam protested, panicked. "No, if you just wanted to kill them you wouldn't bother with the show. What do you want, Lilith?" Sam fought against the ropes binding him, testing their strength.

Lilith smiled her little-girl smile again. "I want..." she answered, "everything my brother gave to you."

Her brother? She must mean Azazel. What had he ever given to Sam? He stole Sam's life: the childhood he should have had, the woman he would have married, his father... What Azazel gave him?

Demon blood.

David tried to tell Sam that his power came from his demon blood. _Azazel gave you the ability to channel the power of Hell. You and Lilith both work off the same battery, so to speak._

This had been Lilith's plan all along. She never meant to kill him. She didn't want him on her team. She wanted his power. She didn't want her rival dead; she wanted him destroyed.

"You see, Sammy?" Lilith sang. "It's a small thing I want. You can leave, all of you. You can live a nice, safe life. Just give me what I want." Her tone was seductive. Not sexual, but seductive. Tempting. In a way, Lilith was offering Sam everything he wanted.

But Sam couldn't trust her. Even if he could believe in her offer, Sam had seen into her mind. He knew what she would do when she had no rival...it was hard to imagine just how bad the world could become. By Lilith's standards, the carnage she left behind in Monument was subtle.

Sam looked at Dean, meeting his eyes. It was the only heads-up he dared to give.

Sam let the power inside him bubble over. He formed it into a dart and sent to Dean. _Ready? Take her out._ He gave Dean a picture of what he needed: Jezebel and her knife.

He was surprised to hear Dean's thought echo back to him. _Ready, Sammy. Do your thing._

Sam felt his eyes blaze to gold as the power finally exploded inside him. He threw his body forward, breaking not the ropes binding him, but the chair itself. The handcuffs remained on his wrists but the ropes fell away as Sam stood. He felt as if his body was on fire with the sudden rush of power. He was vaguely aware that he had a hard-on. Sam flung that power out to Dean and the ropes binding Dean frayed and broke. Dean was ready and twisted in the air as he fell, landing on his feet.

Sam didn't wait to watch Dean. He simply trusted that Dean would do what needed to be done. Sam whirled to face Lilith. He threw up a hand as he moved, sending a blast of power toward Jezebel, getting her out of his way. He met Lilith's eyes, ready to stop her once and for all.

Lilith's eyes glowed magnesium-bright. Sam cried out in pain just from meeting those eyes. Her eyes burned into his and he was instantly blind, the spots dancing in his vision the only thing he could see.

Lilith's glow became brighter. Her power rushed over Sam like a tidal wave, snuffing out his power like a candle. All the strength drained from his body. Sam fell to his knees amid the shattered pieces of the chair.

Lilith came toward him and all Sam could do was wait for her to finish him off.


	15. Chapter 15

Dean felt the ropes binding his legs begin to unravel. He fell, twisting awkwardly in the air. His hands came free as he fell and somehow he landed on his feet. For a moment, Dean clung to the frame, the floor rocking beneath him like a boat in a storm. Blood rushed in his ears. The concussion would have been bad enough, but after hanging upside down for so long...

John's face swam into focus beneath him. Dean blinked, still waiting for the world to stop dancing. It was a struggle not to throw up.

"Help your brother," John said hoarsely.

Sam.

Dean gathered his strength and threw himself at Jezebel, leaving Lilith to Sam. Though she must have had time to act while he pulled himself together, she seemed utterly surprised by his attack. Dean had wrestled her to the floor before she even started to fight back. But when she did fight, he knew he was in trouble. Her demonic strength was far greater than his. She flung him off her as if he were a mere doll. Dean slid across the floor and crashed into the frame where John remained bound. Dean scrambled up and lunged at her again. This time he managed to grab her wrist - not the hand holding the knife - and he wrenched her arm around with all his might. He felt - and heard - bone snap.

But it wasn't Jezebel who screamed. It was Sam. Blinding light filled the room. Dean squeezed his eyes shut and even through his eyelids it was too bright.

Jezebel pulled her wrist out of his hold. She was going to break free!

Dean couldn't fail. If he failed, Sam was dead. Sam could not die.

Dean threw a punch, blindly. His fist connected with what he thought was her arm. He turned his face away from that awful light and felt for the knife he knew was in her hand. Jezebel fought like a wildcat, her nails gouging lines across his back as she bucked, trying to throw him off her. Somehow, Dean clung on and - yes! - found her knife.

John shouted, "Dean!" then something else. Something in Latin.

Of course. Are you a hunter or not, idiot!

Dean held Jezebel down. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus..." He didn't want to exorcise the bitch, but the ritual held her and drained some of her strength. "Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio..." Dean wrenched the knife from Jezebel's hand. He plunged the blade into her heart and twisted it viciously. Hot blood pumped over his hand. He stopped the exorcism before it could send her to Hell too soon. Jezebel had tortured and mutilated his father. Dean wanted revenge for that.

The blinding light was fading and Dean found he could look now. He saw Sam on the ground. He saw Lilith standing over him.

_Sam! No!_

Dean didn't think. He leapt up, slipping in Jezebel's blood, the knife gripped tight in his hand. It took him four strides to reach the dais. One leap to reach Lilith. One blow to plunge the knife into the child's neck. The spray of blood told him he'd hit the artery.

Lilith began to turn to him and there was nothing childlike in her expression. Nothing human in her eyes.

"Dean! No!" Sam moaned from below them.

And like iced water down his spine, Dean realised how badly he'd fucked up the plan.

But she would have killed Sam!

Now they were all going to die.

Lilith collapsed to her knees, blood spilling from her neck. Her body might be weakening, but she still had power.

Dean saw her begin a gesture. He swept the knife down, slashing her wrist. "Sam! You've got to do this now!" He fumbled for the pouch of herbs and offered it to Sam.

Sam was struggling to rise. He looked up at Dean. "Can't. You...you drew first blood. It's got to be you."

_No! I can't! I'm not a witch. It won't work for me!_ Dean shook his head desperately. There had to be some way for Sam to....

Sam still owned Dean's soul.

Dean began this. Dean drew first blood.

Everything in Dean rebelled at the thought. The weirdo psychic crap was Sam's deal. Dean didn't have any power. He didn't want it.

_Help your brother_.

Dean reached out to Sam. "My soul is yours. Can you channel your power through me?"

Sam lifted a shaking hand and passed his own pouch to Dean. They'd had to do it this way: keep the ingredients separate so none of the demons would sense what they planned.

A surge of power ran through Dean's body as Sam grasped his hand. Dean gasped.

"Dean. It has to be now." There was a grief in Sam's eyes, an apology.

Dean thought this must be what a shot of ecstasy would feel like. Suddenly he could do _anything_. He rounded on Lilith and plunged the knife in just below her ribs, slicing her open. Lilith screamed, she screamed like a little girl in agony. Dean knew he was killing a child.

He couldn't remember how this was supposed to work. Sam was meant to do it, not him. He had never explained the exact spell.

"Sam! Tell me what to do!"

"Heart," Sam gasped.

_Yeah, I got that part._ Dean tore open both pouches and mixed the contents in his hand. He had no idea what was in it: herbs, ashes and some kind of oil. The result was a foul smelling sticky mixture that clung to his skin like glue. Dean smeared the stuff over his hands, then drew one hand down Lilith's writhing body, painting stripes across her skin. She screamed at his touch, as if the stuff were holy water. But it was pretty damned far from being holy _anything_.

Dean hated himself for being able to do this to an innocent kid, even if she was possessed. He pushed his hand into the hole in her chest. Lilith clawed at him, but only with her hands. Why wasn't she using power? Dean felt her heart, a hot, slippery muscle beating wildly against his hand.

He wanted to throw up.

"Sam!"

"Say it," Sam instructed. Then words in some language Dean had never heard before.

"Slower!"

Sam repeated the words of the spell.

Dean said it after Sam.

"Three times while you take the heart."

Dean obeyed. He got a firm grip on that living heart and pulled. He felt things inside her body pop and tear. He felt insane. When he reached the last words of the spell, he screamed them, almost hysterical.

The power blasted out from him. Dean, in the centre of the blast, saw it clearly, a ripple of blue-white power spreading out so fast not even a demon could outrun it. New waves of power continued to pump out from him with every beat of his pulse. Dean raised the bloody heart above his head.

Lilith was dead.

Jezebel stood a step away from the dais, utter shock on her face. As Dean watched she fell. A puppet with its strings cut. She hadn't even had time to scream.

Dean turned to Sam, a triumphant grin on his face.

Sam met his eyes. "Dad," he whispered, and collapsed, his eyes open, but unseeing.

"Sam! Sammy!"

***

John rolled off the frame as Dean cut the ropes with a bloody knife. He got to his feet as quickly as he could. "Sam?" he asked urgently.

"He's hurt," Dean answered. His face was utterly bloodless.

John took in the scene quickly. Dean, so very pale and scared. Lilith's mutilated body. Blood everywhere. Sam, lying in an unnatural position, his eyes open. Oh, God, was he dead?

John ran to his boy's side. Kneeling in the blood, he turned Sam onto his back. He found a pulse in Sam's neck. He was alive!

Dean stood over them, the knife held loosely in his hand. There was blood all over him, thickest on his hands, but there were splashes of it on his face. Smudges of blood over Dean's chest were beginning to dry. His pants were soaked with it.

"What the fuck did you do?" John demanded.

Dean answered dully, "It's a spell. Virgin sacrifice. Sam figured since Lilith's body was a child, she'd probably be - "

"A spell?" John interrupted. "To do _what_?"

"Kill demons. It kills all demons in a three-mile radius."

_Oh, God. Oh, no. Not Sam._ John looked down at Sam. "Did Sam know?" he asked. He reached out to close Sam's eyes, and saw again that his hand was missing. He hadn't noticed because it hurt less than the broken bones had hurt. John didn't even care. He shifted so he could use his other hand. Sam's skin felt cool, but John felt a whisper of breath from Sam's parted lips.

"It was Sam's plan," Dean said.

"Oh, Sammy. Dean, don't you understand?"

Dean knelt on the other side of his brother's body. "What are you talking about? _Lilith_ did this. Not the spell!"

John closed his eyes briefly. Dean didn't know. It would be kinder, perhaps, to let Dean blame Lilith for this. But he hesitated for too long.

"What?" Dean insisted.

John gave him the truth. "Sam has demon blood in him. Not much but...enough."

Dean stared for a moment. With an abrupt gesture, he pushed himself away, turning his back on John...and Sam.

"He's breathing, Dean," John said. "He's alive." But who knew how much of Sam was left? _Oh, my son._ John looked up. "Dean!" he barked.

Dean turned around.

"You say this spell killed _all_ the demons? You're sure?"

"That's what it's supposed to do."

"Then go down and get Ellen. I'll take care of Sam."

"Yes, sir," Dean answered frostily. He stalked away, still carrying the bloody knife.

John looked down at his youngest son. With his eyes closed, Sam seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Blood didn't show on his black clothing, but there was a line of blood-spatter across his face. Beneath the red blood his skin seemed terribly pale. John held his hand in front of Sam's mouth and nose. He was still breathing.

Did Sam realise what this spell would do to him? He obviously hadn't told Dean about his demon blood. But Sam had known about it. He hadn't mentioned it directly but the things Sam _didn't_ say, the questions he didn't ask, shouted to the rooftops that he knew. He _must_ have realised this spell would hurt him.

John stroked Sam's hair gently, remembering the tiny baby he had learned to bottle-feed after his mother died. He remembered the little boy whose knees he'd bandaged. He remembered, too, the older boy who slept with a .45 under his pillow to kill the monsters in his closet. He remembered the angry, rebellious teenager who made his daddy's life Hell, questioning everything, never following orders. Sammy. John's son. Whom he loved.

Was he going to lose Sammy now?

"You did it, Sam," John said softly. "You killed her."

He tried to slide his hands beneath Sam's body to lift him. He couldn't do it. With only one hand, John couldn't even carry his son's body.

_Oh, Sam._

***

#### A Week Later

John laid his good hand gently on Dean's shoulder. "Any change?" he asked. In the past week the question had become a ritual. John only needed to look at the still shape of Sam's body in the bed to know the answer.

Dean answered without looking up. "No. No change." He took a sip from his hip flask.

John studied Dean. He was slumped in the chair, exhaustion etched in every line of his face. The shirt he wore was creased and he hadn't shaved for a week. The boy needed rest, but John knew he would be wasting his breath to suggest it.

Sam lay in the hospital bed. He looked as if he were simply sleeping. The doctors said Sam was fine. There was no head trauma, no internal injuries. His heart was strong. Sam simply wouldn't wake up. A plastic clip on his finger was wired to a monitor watching his heart beating and Sam was being fed through a tube but he needed no other life support. He could live for years like this...or he could wake up any moment. They didn't know.

"Why don't you take a break," John suggested.

Dean hauled himself upright. "Sure." He held out the upturned hip flask. "I need a refill anyway." He walked past John to the door, but hesitated before leaving. "Did you hear from Bobby?"

John nodded. "They're done cleaning up. He'll be here by tonight."

"Did he say how many...?"

"Five," John said bluntly. Five people survived possession by Lilith's demons. Five out of a hundred or more. The spell Dean performed killed every demon there, just as he said. Most of the people left behind died at once. Others were so badly injured they didn't last long. None were unhurt. Five lived to make it to the hospital.

"Right. I'll be..." Dean left without finishing the sentence.

Dean had been like that since they reached the hospital. He thought Sam's condition was his fault, because he performed the spell. But it was _Sam's_ plan. For John, it kept coming back to that. If the night had gone as Sam intended, Sam would have done this to himself. Either he hadn't realised that the spell could hurt him, or he _had_ known and willingly accepted the risk. Whichever it was, Dean wasn't to blame.

John sat down in the chair Dean had vacated. He straightened the blanket covering Sam with his good hand - John's only hand, now. By the time they'd reached the hospital it had been too late for the doctors to re-attach his hand even if they'd had it to make the attempt. John would learn to live with it. He had a future now. It was more than he'd had a month ago.

He wanted Sam to have a future, too.

Sam would wake up. This wasn't so different from John's condition back in that Sacramento hospital. David - or something - brought John back from the dead but it took weeks for him to wake up from it.

David came to the hospital when it became clear Sam wasn't going to wake up. He examined Sam and told John there was nothing he could do. "Sam is not in here. He is not dead; his body is fine. He just needs to find his way back."

John couldn't accept that as an answer. "How can we help him?" he demanded, but he'd known from David's expression what the answer would be.

"You can't, John. Keep his body alive and Sam will wake up when he is ready."

John shook his head. "Wait. You said that when _I_ was unconscious you went to some mystic for help. Why can't you do the same for Sam?"

David had looked down at Sam's pale face for a long time. "The cases are quite different, John." He took a deep breath. "Have you ever heard of the Hmong?"

John hadn't.

"They are a Chinese people with some very unusual spiritual beliefs. They believe each person has several souls, and when the body becomes ill it's a sign that one of them has become lost, detached from the body. They have a ritual, _ua neeb Saib_, to entice the missing soul back to the body. I cannot promise it will help Sam, but I can give you the name of a Hmong shaman. He might help a white man...he might not."

John laid his hand over Sam's. He hadn't called David's shaman yet, but if Sam didn't wake up soon, he would have to.

Sam's skin felt warm and alive under John's fingers. "I hope you can hear me, son. I want you to know you did everything right. That was a hell of a spell. Lilith's dead. There are still some demons out there, but the worst is over. The war is over. You and Dean did that." John sighed heavily. "Come back to us, Sammy. Dean needs you."

***

_When the power of Dean's spell blasted through him, it hurt so much Sam couldn't even scream. He had no sense of where he was, no awareness of his body. Only pain. Every nerve was on fire, every cell being torn apart. The fires of Hell itself could not have been worse. Sam first, terrified thought was not for himself, but for Dean. Was he, too, being torn apart by this spell? Then even that thought became impossible._

_Some endless time later, Sam found himself in a cool, dark place. He thought maybe he was dead, though this wasn't anything he had expected from death. After the pain, this wasn't too bad...but wasn't he supposed to see a light or something? When Sam thought about dying, which he did about as often as any other healthy twenty-three year-old man, he'd always hoped his mom would be in that light. But this place was just dark and cool and floating._

_There were voices in the darkness, far away. Familiar voices. Sam tried to hear, but he couldn't make out the words. The tone was so familiar he didn't always need the words. He could tell Dean was worried about something. So was Dad. Ellen's voice was there, too, sometimes, reassuring when she spoke to Dean and something quite different when she talked with John._

_It was comforting to hear them, because it meant that the people he loved were alive, but Sam didn't try to get closer. If he was dead, then he'd be a spirit. They wouldn't want him around._

***

"You need him, too, John," Ellen said quietly.

John looked up. Ellen stood in the doorway, holding a tall cup of coffee. She lifted the cup slightly to indicate it was for him.

"Ellen, I can't." John waved his left arm, pointing out that he couldn't take the coffee from her. His only hand was holding Sam's. He wouldn't let go of his boy.

"I thought of that," Ellen smiled. She produced a straw, popped it into the cup, pulled up another chair and held the cup up to John's mouth.

John couldn't help smiling. "Thanks." He sipped coffee through the straw. It was strong, black and just the right side of hot. "It's good," he said gratefully.

"How is he? Any change?"

"No. No change. The doc keeps telling me the same bullshit. Nothing physically wrong."

"And you, John?"

"Well, I'll never play pool again, but..."

"John," she warned, with a look that said clearer than words that she wouldn't take any bullshit from him.

"I'm fine. Just worried about my boys. Dean thinks it's all his fault Sam's in a coma."

Ellen squeezed his thigh. "Yeah. I'm worried about him, too."

***

_The first thing was his body. Sam had almost forgotten what it felt like to have weight and substance. He didn't like it. It was awkward and heavy and big._

_The second thing was Ellen's voice, but this time he understood her words. "How is he? Any change?"_

_Dad's voice answered her. "No. No change. The doc keeps telling me the same bullshit. Nothing physically wrong."_

_Were they talking about Dean? Was Dean sick again?_

_"And you, John?" Ellen asked gently._

_"Well, I'll never play pool again," John said sarcastically._

_"John."_

_"I'm fine. Just worried about my boys. Dean thinks it's all his fault Sam's in a coma."_

_What are you talking about, Dad? I'm not in a coma! I'm right here!_

_Or was that what the dark place meant?_

_As soon as he thought of it, Sam tried to move his body. He didn't feel himself move, but John said sharply, "Sam? Sammy?"_

_Sam tried to open his eyes. It felt as if his eyelids were glued down but finally he saw a blur of light. Real light. His mom wasn't in that light, but in that moment, Sam thought seeing his Dad was even better._

***

"Sam!" John's heart leapt. He felt breathless with hope. "Sammy, can you hear me?"

Sam's lips moved, but no sound came out. His eyes fluttered open, the irises bloodshot, pupils dilated so John guessed Sam couldn't see much more than a blur. He enclosed Sam's hand in his own, letting him know he was there.

"I'll get the doctor," Ellen offered.

"No! Call Dean first. He'll be in the coffee shop." _Or the liquor store,_ John added silently.

"Okay. Sure."

Sam tried to speak again. "Dean?" it was barely a whisper.

John leaned forward so Sam could see him better. "Dean will be here soon, son. He's hardly left your side." It was an incredible relief.

"He's...okay?" Sam smiled, a relief matching John's written across his face.

"Worried sick about you, but otherwise he's fine." John squeezed Sam's hand. "Don't try to talk, Sammy. You've been...sleeping for more than a week."

Sam blinked a few times and squinted at John. "Lilith?" he asked anxiously. His voice sounded very rough.

"She's dead. You and Dean killed her. Do you remember?"

Sam frowned, as if he didn't remember. "The spell?" he hazarded.

"Yes. It nearly killed you, Sam."

"Worth it, if she's dead."

That was when Dean burst into the room. "Sammy?"

Sam looked up at his brother and smiled. "Hey. Miss me?"

Dean stared at him. "You goddamned piece of crap. Don't you ever - "

Sam interrupted hoarsely, "Hey. We did it."

Dean looked at John, then back to Sam. John could see how badly Dean wanted to rant at Sam, but Dean's face cracked into a wide grin. "We did, didn't we? Ding, dong, the bitch is dead."

And that, John thought, would do for all of them.

***

#### Mansfield, Nebraska

  


#### A Week Later

John passed the aluminium tube to Sam. "Needs two hands to open it." He settled down on the couch beside Ellen. They were back in Nebraska, at Ellen's apartment, though the boys were staying in a nearby motel.

Sam frowned, as he always did when John called attention to his missing hand, but he accepted the tube and started to unscrew the top.

John watched him, inwardly shaking his head. Sam was just going to have to get used to it. John lost his hand, not his brain. He would adapt. He had talked over prosthetic options with a specialist at the hospital when Sam was in his coma, but a prosthetic that was anything more than cosmetic was much too expensive and John wasn't interested in cosmetics. If a replacement would have some functional use, he would consider it. Otherwise, what was the point?

Sam slid the contents out of the tube and unrolled it carefully. John let out his breath, relieved it was still intact after all these years. It was an antique woven cloth with an intricate, circular design. Here and there, small objects had been sewn into the weave: semi-precious stones, shells, polished beads of wood and glass. Even in the dull light of Ellen's living room, it shone.

Sam stepped back, admiring the full effect. "Wow."

"What is it?" Dean asked.

"It's a mandala," John explained. "Very old, powerful protection." He looked at Dean. "I want you to sell it. Bobby told me Bella Talbot is back. She offered me a million bucks for this eight years ago."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "And the bitch didn't steal it?"

John smirked. "This is one thing Bella _can't_ steal. Its magic, or whatever it is, will only work for you if you come by it legitimately. You have to inherit it, buy it or accept it as a gift."

John obtained it from another hunter. Rod Hammond screwed up in the worst way and ended up on trial for the string of murders he'd been trying to stop. John finished the hunt for him, but that didn't help Rod. Rod had no family, so he gave the mandala to John for safekeeping while he was in prison, on the understanding that, should he not get out, it would become John's property. Rod died in prison: pneumonia. So it was legitimately John's.

"So you want us to go to Bella?" Dean clarified, a thread of anger creeping into his voice. "You know she stole the Colt from us?"

"I heard, yes." John met Sam's eyes first, then Dean's. "Listen, boys. Ellen and I are going to rebuild the Roadhouse. We need about a hundred grand to do it right." It was a lot of money, but they were going to build a place that really would be a sanctuary. Salt and iron in the foundations. Every protection possible. "I want you boys to negotiate with Bella. Anything you can get from her above a hundred is yours."

Sam's eyes went wide. "Are you serious? Dad, that's - "

"This mandala is worth a lot to the kind of people Bella deals with. Enough to give you both a real choice about what you're going to do next. Sammy, it's more than enough money for you to go back to school, if you want to. Or it's enough to give you a good start doing anything you want."

Dean met John's eyes. There was a great deal being said in that one look. It was an acknowledgement that John wouldn't be hunting again. There was a certain pride. There was speculation that John couldn't quite decipher, and much more.

"Alright," Dean shrugged. "We'll go see the wicked bitch of the west."

***

Dean was waiting in the Impala, and his music drifted over the road to where John stood. The mandala was stashed safely in the trunk.

Sam came up to John's side, pulling on his jacket. "Do you mind if we take a bit of a detour, Dad? It'll add a few days to the trip, that's all."

"You find another hunt already?"

Sam smiled. "No, not a hunt. I have a friend in upstate New York. I'd like to drop by and see her."

_Her. Ah._ "Girlfriend?" John asked slyly.

"We went on one date, found one of her friends in a pool of blood and I nearly got her killed. I think _girlfriend_ would be exaggerating." He shrugged. "I'm not expecting anything. It just...I don't know. It feels like the right time to visit."

"You go ahead. You've both earned a break."

"Thanks. Dad...what you said about making a choice..."

John smiled.

"I don't want to live on the road any more. But I'm going to keep hunting. I'm going to need your help."

John turned to him in surprise. "_My_ help? I don't think I can be the hunter I was."

Sam looked very serious. "I have to track down the children, Dad. All those nursery fires from the year Jess died. You're the only person who knows where they all happened."

John swallowed. "Why do you want to track them down? The demon is dead."

"Before he left, David told me about the other generations of kids like me. The demon didn't make us psychic, Dad. He just took advantage of something already there."

"He fed you his own blood, Sammy."

Sam nodded. "I know. That enhanced our powers, I think, and gave the demon some kind of power over us. But the psychic thing - that's what drew him to us, Dad. I didn't get that from him."

_No,_ John thought, _you got that from Mary._ He kept the thought to himself. He would never know for certain and Sam didn't need to hear it.

"The children born that year will be the last generation tainted by Azazel's blood." Sam frowned. "Some of them will go bad, I think, even without him pushing buttons. A few might be really dangerous. But it's the others I want to find. They'll need...help."

It was true. John pushed his misgivings aside. If he didn't trust his own son, who _could_ he trust?

"There were nine nursery fires that year. Ten, including Jessica. You could find them all yourself by following the same trail I did. But I know more than that, Sam. I can tell you about _all_ of the children Azazel visited that year."

Sam stared. "How? We tried tracking back the omens, but - "

"There are no secrets in Hell, Sam. The demon took everything I knew, but when he did that, he couldn't hide what _he_ knew from me. Maybe he didn't try - I wasn't much of a threat to him dead. But I saw it all, and I remember."

"Then you'll help?"

John nodded. "While you're gone, I'll write it all down for you," he offered. "When you get back, we can talk over your plan."

"Thanks, Dad." Sam smiled and started toward the Impala.

"Sam!" John called after him.

Sam turned back.

"Good hunting."


	16. Chapter 16

#### Epilogue: Fifteen Years Later

Rose Holt was seventeen years old, a pretty girl with dark, short-cropped hair and a little puppy-fat still rounding out her figure. She wore a light blouse and pants, sandals on her feet and a small silver cross on a chain around her neck. She sat in her hired car, looking up at the sign above the building. _Harvelle's Roadhouse_, the sign declared.

Rose unfolded the letter in her hand and re-read it, although she already had the contents memorised. Yes, this was the place. It just wasn't anything like she'd imagined.

The Roadhouse was a relatively new building, half stone and half timber. The windows were shuttered. The sign above the doors was hand-painted. The doors stood open, but somehow the sight wasn't as welcoming as it could have been. Around the corner from the building stood a dusty, old, black car. The hood was open and a toolbox lay on the ground, but Rose saw no sign of anyone working on the car.

She glanced down at the letter again and realised she was stalling. Had she come this far only to get scared and run away? Rose slipped the letter into her purse, climbed out of her car, locked it and walked toward the open doors.

As she reached the first step a man came out of the darkness. He wore patched jeans and a t-shirt that had probably been white, once. His tanned skin, like his clothing, was oil-stained and he was carrying something that she guessed belonged in that car. He stopped when he saw Rose.

"Bar's closed, sweetheart," he said. He didn't remark that she looked too young.

She met his eyes, feigning confidence. "I'm looking for Sam Winchester."

He was silent for a moment, those green eyes studying her closely. His eyes lingered on her chest before he reached her eyes again. "Oh. Right. Well, go inside." He moved past her without another word.

Nothing for it, Rose thought, and walked into the shadowed interior of the bar. An old CD stereo stood on the bar with a Blues song playing. Rose walked toward the bar, her heels loud on the wooden floor. The bar, at least, was what she expected: small tables and uncomfortable-looking stools, two pool tables, the usual. A second look revealed children's toys scattered around near the bar. She saw no sign of anyone who might be Sam Winchester.

"Hello?" she called tentatively.

"Looking for Sam?"

The voice came from behind her and Rose whirled around with a little scream.

The man who had spoken was much older than the first man. His hair was grey and thinning, his face deeply lined. He was holding a broom. As Rose turned, he raised both hands as if she'd pulled a gun. Except one of his hands was missing. The broom clattered to the floor. He made no attempt to catch it.

"Sorry," the old man said. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"You're not Sam?" she asked, a little unnerved by all this. She sent out an exploratory tendril of thought from her mind to his. Nothing invasive, just a taste, while there was still time for her to get away. What she felt reassured her and she smiled politely.

He smiled, and it changed his whole face. He looked more gentle and his eyes sparkled with life and intelligence. He moved out of the shadows toward her. "I'm John Winchester. Sam's my son." He offered his right hand, the picture of old-fashioned courtesy.

Rose took the offered hand, feeling she could trust this man. "I'm Rose Holt. Is Sam here?"

"He's making a supply run, but he'll be back in less than an hour. Can I get you a drink while you wait?"

She hesitated. "I'm not twenty one yet."

There was that lovely smile again. He must have been devastatingly handsome when he was young. "Bar's closed anyway," he answered easily. "Cola? Coffee? Juice?"

"Juice would be great."

"Have a seat. I'll get it. Oh, and if the children start running around, just try not to step on them. They move pretty fast and I've given up tryin' to catch 'em."

Rose couldn't help smiling at that. She chose a seat at a table.

John returned with a glass of orange juice and set it in front of her. "You look nervous," he remarked, sitting down.

"I...I guess I am. I don't even know why I came, or why Sam wants to see me."

"There's nothing to be afraid of. Sam's a good man. He wants to talk with you is all."

"What about? Why me?"

It was John's turn to hesitate. "I should let Sam explain. But it has to do with something that happened to your mom when you were a baby."

Rose felt her eyes widen. He must be talking about the fire. Her mom had told her about that: the ghost-like man who started the fire in her nursery, the two men who saved them both. If it were anyone but her mom, Rose wouldn't have believed the story. But Monica was one of the most practical, down-to-earth people Rose knew.

"Rose, I didn't want to scare you. Really, it's okay."

She sipped her juice. "I believe you," she answered honestly, "but I haven't met Sam."

John was silent for a moment, long enough to make her nervous again. Finally he looked up, meeting her eyes. "I told Sam I'd stay out of it when he started writing to you and the others. But he's not here and you do deserve some answers."

"Wait. Others?"

He nodded. "In the year you were born there were nine unusual fires across the country. They all started close to a six-month-old baby. In each case, the baby's primary care giver was killed but the baby survived. Your mother is the only exception: she lived. There's something special about each of those children. Like you, Rose." He said it gently enough.

"What do you know about me?" Rose thought she should be scared. She wasn't.

"I know about the fire when you were a baby. Everything else I know is what I've seen since you walked in that door. For instance, you were really nervous when you came in, but you relaxed very quickly. Yet it bothers you that you haven't met Sam, even though you've been writing to each other for months." John looked at her thoughtfully. "You're...it's not mind-reading you do, is it? You read people's hearts, or maybe their souls."

She laughed, and knew it sounded fake. "No. I...that's crazy." _How did he know?_

"Sure it is," John smiled. Nothing more.

"I don't _read_," Rose said defensively. "It's not words. I just...I know you're a good man."

"See? That wasn't so hard to admit, was it?" He looked back over his shoulder. "I think that's Sam. I'll let him know you're here."

Rose watched him go, sipping her juice. John was a good man, but she tasted something hard in him. She wouldn't let herself look below the surface, though. She'd done that before, curious about someone, and hadn't liked what lay beneath the iron-hard shield. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. That was probably what she tasted in John.

Rose got her first glimpse of Sam as he carried boxes into the saloon. She couldn't help noticing his strength, his muscles bulging as he held two boxes in his arms, one atop the other so the upper box came above his head. Sam moved across the saloon confidently, sure of the route without needing to see it. But there was a red and blue plastic truck in his path.

Rose called a warning. "Hey! Crash hazard." It was her father's phrase.

Sam turned his face toward her with some difficulty because of the boxes.

She pointed. "You're about to fall over a truck."

Sam smiled, and Rose saw his father in that smile. "Thanks." He walked around the toy truck and disappeared into the basement. On his return trip he picked up the toy and set it on a table. "I'll be with you in a moment, Rose."

She watched him and his father carry boxes. John carried one box at a time to Sam's two, but the amputated hand didn't seem to be a problem for him. Finally, he and Sam emerged from the basement together. Sam tossed a ring of keys to John who caught them deftly and smiled at Rose on his way out.

It left her alone with Sam. Sam gestured to the stool, asking permission to sit.

"I'm Rose," she offered. She pushed the juice glass away from her; it was empty.

"Hi, Rose. I'm Sam Winchester. I'm glad you came."

"I'm not sure why I did. I'm supposed to be on vacation with my parents, but your invitation...I don't know."

Sam smiled. "Listen, I know this is a bit weird and you've come a long way. I don't know if you'll believe anything I have to tell you, but I promise I'm not a psycho or anything. You can tell me to shut up, or you can leave, any time you want to."

Rose met his eyes and touched his mind at the same time. The taste was so different from his father. Sam was all sharp edges and glass. There was a hardness to him she had tasted in John, too, but in Sam it masked reluctance...and fear. Rose drew back from him. He was afraid...of her?

"What is it, Rose? What do you see?"

"You're afraid of me."

"I warned you," John said from the door. He walked up to their table, laid the keys down and picked up Rose's empty glass.

Sam nodded. "You did," he agreed. To Rose he said, "I'm not sure if I'm relieved that you saw that or..." he hesitated. "I know Dad started to tell you what this is about and I can't think of any subtle way to say this, so here goes. That fire when you were a baby: the same thing happened to me. My mom died."

"I'm sorry," Rose answered automatically, but her gaze moved to John, who was behind the bar. _Bad things happen to good people_, she remembered. What she felt in him was beginning to fall into place.

Sam followed her gaze. "Yeah," he said, more quietly. "Dad saw it happen. He heard my mom scream, but when he reached the nursery..."

Rose listened as Sam told the story of his mother's death. It was her mom's story all over again. Except someone had been there to save her mom from... "A demon?" Rose whispered. Instinctively, her fingers touched the cross around her neck. She made an effort to smile. "Come on. No one believes in that stuff any more."

"I think you do, at least a little," Sam disagreed. "Me, I _know_ it's real. I've lived with it all my life. Did you ever hear the saying that the Devil's greatest achievement is..."

"...Convincing the world he doesn't exist," Rose finished with him. "But...what does that have to do with me?"

"All of the babies the demon visited were born with some kind of psychic ability. And they were all...infected with the demon's blood. All of them except _you_, Rose."

"Me?"

"My father was tracking the demon all that year, recording the signs. The first time he was able to predict where it would strike next was when it came after you. We got there in time to save you and your mom."

Rose stared at him. "That was you? You saved my mom that night?"

"Me and my brother. Because we were there, the demon didn't have time to touch you. That makes you pretty special."

_Special how?_ Rose touched her cross again. "What do you want from me, Sam?"

Sam met her eyes. "Right now, I just want a chance to get to know you. The demon is dead now, Rose. That's a good thing, but it mean's we're in uncharted territory. I want you to know that if anything, you know, _weird_ starts happening, you can come to me for help."

Rose could taste the truth of his words, but she also knew it wasn't the whole truth. Sam _did_ want something from her, but he wouldn't tell her yet. He was waiting for something.

"You...you're psychic too?" she tried tentatively.

She hadn't expected her question to hurt him, but there was no mistaking the flash of pain in his eyes before he covered it and answered. "I was. Most of it is gone now but I still have pieces of it. Dreams, mostly."

"Tell me about the others."

Sam looked at her seriously. "Are you sure? This is a lot for you to take in all at once."

Rose nodded. "Your father told me there were nine fires. So there are eight other people?"

"No. The fires happened when the demon was interrupted. He visited a lot of children without anyone knowing."

"How many?" Rose asked breathlessly. She felt close to something big, something she desperately needed to know.

Instead of answering her, Sam turned to his father. John was still at the bar, stacking glasses and probably listening to everything they said. It impressed Rose that Sam valued John's opinion.

"It's your call, Sammy," John answered the unspoken question. "I think she can handle it."

Sam got to his feet. "Come with me."

Rose followed him. Behind the bar a door opened into a long hallway which led, she guessed, to the family living area behind the saloon. There were children's toys scattered along the hallway and from somewhere further in Rose could hear the children playing: voices, laughter and the music of some cartoon on the television.

"Your kids?" she asked Sam.

Sam smiled. "My niece and nephew. They're Dean's kids. I never found time to settle down and start a family."

Rose frowned. "That's the first time you've lied to me," she said quietly.

Sam stopped walking and looked at her. "Alright. I don't believe it would be right to have a family with the life I lead. I was raised like that, a different school every year, moving from one crappy town to another, never having any money, scared all the time... I hated it. If I ever have kids, I don't want them to hate me."

Rose didn't think that was the whole truth, but it was a very personal question, so she let it go. Sam's life was none of her business.

"Here," Sam announced, gesturing to the wall.

A large map of the USA was pinned to the wall. It was surrounded by photographs, post-it notes, press cuttings and handwritten notes on all kinds of scraps. All of the photographs were from public sources: prints from internet sites and local newspapers. Coloured strings went from each picture and note to different points on the map. Rose recognised herself in a photo of her high school cheerleading squad: from last year when they won the state championship. Were all of these the children Sam was talking about? There were too many to count.

"Seventy six," Sam said softly. "There were eighty one children the demon visited in the year you were born. Two of them died in childhood. Three no longer live in the USA. These are the rest."

Seventy six kids. "All of them like me?" Rose turned to Sam and corrected herself. "Like _us_."

"Yeah. Like us." Sam reached for Rose's hand.

Rose allowed him to hold her hand.  She was shaking, suddenly, and the warmth of his touch helped. She realised he had known that; he'd instinctively known how to help her.

"Should have taken the blue pill," she muttered under her breath.

Sam must have heard her, because he laughed suddenly. "Aren't you a bit young to be a _Matrix_ fan?" he asked, smiling.

Rose couldn't help grinning back. "Are you kidding? It's my mom's favourite. I grew up watching them on reruns every year."

It was oddly appropriate, she thought. She did feel like Keanu Reeves must have, stepping into a strange new world. Did that make Sam her Morpheus?

She squeezed Sam's hand. They were a strange family, these Winchesters, but her instinct told her she could trust them. They were good people.

"So," Sam said, "have I scared you enough, or would you like to know more?"

_After this, there is no turning back. Take the blue pill - the story ends, you believe whatever you want to believe. Take the red pill - you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes._

Rose looked at the map on the wall. Seventy six.

"I want to know everything," she decided.

_Welcome to the real world._


End file.
